


Crimson Peak Re-Telling

by brittishmenorbust



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: 19th Century, AU, Alternate Ending, Crimson Peak, Crimson Peak Inspired, F/M, Ghosts, Gothic Romance, Haunted House, Implied/Referenced Incest, Love, Mystery, Romance, Sexual Content, Smut, lucille sharpe - Freeform, sort of, thomas sharpe - Freeform, tom hiddleston - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-04-28 02:36:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 46,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5074102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittishmenorbust/pseuds/brittishmenorbust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic follows the plot of Guillermo Del Toro's "Crimson Peak" but with alterations. The reader is a young, independent woman who gains the attention of a mysterious Thomas Sharpe. It basically follows the movie except for a happier ending and a lesser, but still prevalent, degree of Gothic tropes/dark tones. I am a huge fan of the movie/Tom/Guillermo and mean to only embrace and give my own romanticized take on the film!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ghosts Are Real, This Much I Know

You stared at the red stain on the paper. Frowning, you tried to wipe it off, but to no avail. In a moment of bliss you had kissed your manuscript and now it was marred with an imprint of your imperfect lips. Ah well, surely it would make no difference to Ogilvie whether or not the parchment was clean, he would probably reject it anyway. You sighed, feeling the weight of the forces against you. All you wanted was for the world to read the words you had put to paper. You were sure if you were just given a chance, you could make them cringe with the horror with your ghosts in your Gothic fiction.

Your father was no help and you shouldn't have expected otherwise. Although he was the wealthiest man in New York, he had little to no time for you or your "hobbies" as he called them. He was much to busy buying this or selling that. That is, when he wasn't badgering you to get married already and stop taking up so much room in the house with your books and papers. Luckily enough for you, he was away most of the time and the silence of your incredibly large house catered to your writing just fine. The only interference you ever had was your maid, Margaret. In her old age she still looked after you with the same care she always had. Margaret had come into your family when your mother passed away. You were very young at the time. For a while you thought you had forgotten your mother. You couldn't remember what she looked like, what she sounded like.

It wasn't until you were about ten that you encountered her again. Part of you still thinks it was a dream. You remember sleeping in your room, your white night gown snug against your body, your knees tucked into your chest to keep warm. You still had your eyes closed when you heard it. Her voice. You felt cold wrack through your body and you squeezed your eyes shut even harder.

"Beware," you heard her voice. It was as though she were talking through a scratched recording. "Beware of Crimson Peak," she shuddered.

By the time you had mustered enough courage to turn around and she her, she was gone, taking the cold feeling with her.

You had almost forgotten that night by the next year. Margaret was making dinner and your father was away so you were bored. You ventured outside into the cold night, hoping for adventure. Instead you found a cold seeping into your bones that had nothing to do with the weather. You remembered this feeling. You knew it was coming. When she rose from the snowy earth, all sallow-faced and transparent, you balked. You should have run, screamed, attacked, something. But you stayed still. You watched your mother's image as it made a horrible screeching sound. It pointed towards the house and lunged at you. Running back into the house, you found sanctuary in Margaret's open arms. You did not tell her of your encounter. Only when you looked back outside did you realize what your mother had been trying to warn you about. There, just beyond the first trees of the woods were three large, snarling wolves. Had you stayed outside any longer, they surely would have ripped you apart. Imagining the crimson snow, you shuddered, silently thanking your mother.

Glancing down at your manuscript now, you smiled. Your past may have had its horrific events, but it did breed good fiction.

No one in your society understood your passions. All the women you were forced to associate with were unsophisticated and dull. They were merely looking for a man; the thought of which for you was more horrible than the wolves of your childhood. You were forced to attend many society events - balls, charities, dinners, etc. - to maintain appearances and uphold the family name.

It was during your forced participation in these societal events that you first heard the name: Sharpe. At first you ignored the women trying to engage you in their gossip. After a while, however, you heard the name several times and began to listen. Many women were enthralled with a certain man named Thomas Sharpe. From what you heard, he was tall, dark and handsome, as well as mysterious. He and his sister, Lucille, had traveled all the way from England to seek financing in America. While some women were drawn to the dark mystery of the Sharpe's appearance in New York, others were wary. They didn't like the idea of strangers and they sensed something "off" about the two of them. You couldn't pretend not to be interested any longer and asked what some of them meant by that. They couldn't accurately explain to you what they felt other than that it reminded them of that sense they got when they wondered if they forgot to lock the door - a general uncertainty and uneasiness.

You scolded yourself for wanting to meet this mystery man. Surely you had no time for such investigations into a man who was more than likely another wine-loving, wife-abusing brute. And yet the writer in you was drawn to the dark mystery that surrounded him. Little did you know, you would be meeting him the very next day.


	2. An Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You go to the publishing house and run into a mysterious gentleman.

Gripping your manuscript tightly against your chest, you waded through the muddy streets and towards the publishing house. You were almost an hour early, but your nerves could no longer stand to wait in that silent house with only the clock's ticking to break the silence. You ignored the stares of men almost twice your age and women who looked down on you and your "silly hobby." You held your head high and, as you had done almost your entire life, went on to take care of business by yourself.

The building was romantic in its way. Perhaps the oldest and least cared for building in your section of New York, its decaying edifice was but a friendly face to you. The chipped stones and fading statues were welcome friends. You marched up the steps and through the heavy wooden doors. The lobby of the publishing house was busy as usual. Ogilvie's secretary spotted you the moment you walked in and you could almost hear her shoulders slump with dread at your arrival. Smiling to yourself, you dodged the many writers and agents who carried stacks of papers and mountains of coffee, and made it to the main desk. The secretary, Kristen, forced a smile at you, her blue eyes icy cold and her hair pulled back into such a tight pony tail, you were worried that if the band broke, it might take someone's eye out.

"You're early," she said, clearly annoyed.

"I know," you explained. "But I couldn't help it. I was just too excited to see him and show him my new manuscript."

"I bet," she said flatly. She stood and held out her hands.

"He's in a meeting right now, but it's not important. I can drop it on his desk so he has it for your meeting."

You hesitated, not trusting Kristen not to drop it in the trash the moment you walked away, but you handed it over with the apprehension of a mother leaving her child. Kristen flashed you another fake grin and walked to the back of the room. She opened the door quickly and slipped inside. Moments later she returned, and, if you weren't mistaken, she was blushing profusely.

"Is everything alright?" you asked her as she sat back down at her post.

"Yes," she cleared her throat, looking flustered. She pulled at the collar of her dress. "Why wouldn't it be? He will see you in about fifteen minutes."

You thanked her curtly and took a seat near Ogilvie's door. Your tapping foot made little impact on the swarm of sounds around you. People were talking, typing, writing, and pacing everywhere. You considered just bursting into the room and forgetting the consequences because of your anxiety to meet with him. Just as you had almost rationalized the action, the door opened. Before you could even think, you had stood up. Expecting to see the wrinkly, old Ogilvie, your breath was snatched away by the sight before you.

He stood at least a head taller than you with an air of dark importance. His suit was perfectly tailored and exquisite, but at least a year old. Your eyes trailed from his silk necktie up to the pale skin of his neck. They followed up along his rigid jawline, pronounced cheekbones, thin lips, and at last, the most piercing eyes. His black hair was combed back, but you could tell it took a lot of wrangling to get it to look so relaxed. That accurately described the rest of the man as well. He had a presence of a hurricane, contained within a glass jar.

The man tilted his head to the side, clearly waiting for something from you. It was only after a few moments that you realized he must have asked you something. You blushed, ashamed that you had let this man's appearance distract you from the world for such a time.

"I'm sorry?" you asked, your voice shakier than you expected.

"I asked if you were alright, my lady," his voice sounded as smooth as his silk tie.

It was then that you realized you had your hands on his chest, shielding yourself as you had bumped into him. You quickly removed your hands, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks. _Stop it,_ you warned yourself. It was ludicrous to allow a man of all things to make you feel inferior or out of sorts.

"I am fine," you said haughtily, smoothing out your dress. "Why wouldn't I be?" you prompted.

You forced yourself to stare into his eyes although all you wanted to do was look anywhere else.

"Forgive me," he said, his lips curling into a shadow of a smile. He reached for your hand and you could do nothing but let him. "I did not mean to startle you." He slowly raised your hand to his lips, seemingly asking your permission with his eyes. As his thin lips touched your skin, you shuddered. You pulled your hand away, hoping to break whatever spell he seemed to hold over you.

"You did nothing of the kind, sir," you safely returned your hand to your side and he straightened up.

The reaction this man caused you to have was unlike anything you had ever experienced. He was attractive, objectively speaking, but so were many men who you encountered at your parties and dinners. There was something beneath the surface of that charming face that made your stomach feel as though it were dancing.

"(Y/n)!" you heard Ogilvie call from inside the room.

You couldn't believe this man had distracted you from your ultimate goal. Rushing by him, you nearly ran into the room and closed the door behind you. Even with the heavy door between you, you could almost feel those piercing eyes on your back. You shook the thought of him away and focused on Ogilvie's patronizing gaze.

"Have a seat," he gestured.

You saw that your manuscript was facing your chair rather than his and frowned.

"Did you look at it yet?" you asked. "I had highlighted the changes for you."

Ogilvie sighed and took his own seat opposite you.

"Yes," he said. "Our friend, Mr. Sharpe seemed to enjoy it, even if I had my qualms."

"Mr. Sharpe?" you repeated. "When was he here?"

Ogilvie gave you a conceded grin.

"My dear, you just met him," he laughed coldly. "He was seeing me about a possible investment. Kristen came in to drop off your manuscript and he asked if he could take a look."

You hated yourself for wondering what he thought of it. You also realized that those women had been accurate in their descriptions of Thomas Sharpe and you scolded yourself for not deducing who he was earlier.

"He was rather impressed," Ogilvie answered your unasked question. You saw the look of disapproval in his eyes as he looked towards your papers.

"You were not, I gather," you said. Ogilvie gave a slight shake of the head.

"I will not deny you have a talent," he said, although it looked as though it pained him. "But there is something missing."

"Something missing?" you repeated. It had adventure, ghosts, mystery, and an epic heroine! What more could a reader need?

Ogilvie nodded slowly. 

"Romance," he said simply. "It needs a romance."

You failed to fight the urge to roll your eyes.

"Romance is trivial," you dismissed him.

"Romance sells," Ogilvie countered.

"I'm not making a product, I'm making art," you felt silly saying it, but it rang true.

Ogilvie shrugged. 

"I won't touch it until there's something in it I can sell," he said. He looked absolutely defiant. He sat there in his chair with a smug air of superiority that made you sick.

"Fine," you answered through gritted teeth. "I'll see if I can manage something."

Ogilvie smiled in his small victory. You hated that you acquiesced to the romance angle, but it seemed that it was the only way to even be considered for publication. _What I do for my art,_ you thought.

You finished your meeting quickly after that and headed towards the door. You had your manuscript tucked under your arm and were determined to go home and write for the rest of the day. You just wanted to get whatever romance you had to put into it out of the way so you could go back and revise the important parts. You weren't paying attention when you left the room and once again found your face in the chest of the tall man.

"We have to stop meeting like this," the voice above you chided.

You looked up to see Thomas Sharpe smiling down at you. Although the darkness you had sensed still surrounded him, he seemed sincere in his friendliness. You pulled back, taking two steps away from him and holding your manuscript in front of you like a shield. Only with the moving air as you stepped back did you take in the smell of him. Your head spun with the delicious scent of the combination of a fire, books, and something else you couldn't quite name.

"Indeed," you finally managed to speak.

Thomas' eyes flitted down to your manuscript.

"That was yours?" he asked inquisitively. He searched your face for answer.

"Yes," you said defensively. You felt as though he had seen you naked already, having read your words.

His face was unreadable but you could tell he was processing this.

"I should go--" you started to say before he cut in.

"You are a fantastic writer," he sounded genuine enough. "I was enthralled. Ghosts? Mystery?" You felt yourself blush again. "Surely Ogilvie will publish you?"

You sighed, returning to the problem that had laid before you.

"Not yet," you said. Not wanting to get into it, you moved to side-step Thomas. You were not expecting him to counter you and step aside as well, keeping in front of you.

"Would it be forward of me to ask you to dinner without us even being formally introduced?" he asked. His gaze was intense, but there was also something inviting about it.

You looked him up and down again, decided you definitely had no time for that and shook your head.

"It would. I do think I will refuse you. Have a nice day," you answered curtly. Too many times had you held the interest of men just like Thomas who charmed and wooed you, only to be interested in your money or your virtues.

Thomas frowned and his eyes seemed to darken. He flexed his shoulders and seemed to become taller, larger. You flinched. Surely he would not force you into anything?

"It is a shame, I should have been honored to dine among the likes of a great writer such as yourself. Mary Shelley would have been quite jealous, I think." It was almost as though he knew who your hero was and so held that smug grin on his face while waiting for your reaction.

"Mary Shelley?" you repeated. "Jealous of my writing?" You knew he was simply trying to flatter you, but you had to admit that it was working. Perhaps he could see the skepticism on your face.

"I do not mean to trap you, my lady," he placated.

"(Y/n)," you interjected. "You can call me (y/n)."

"(Y/n)," he repeated. The sound of his voice saying your name made you shiver almost imperceptibly. You wondered if he had noticed for his head tilted slightly and he smiled. "And you may call me Thomas."

You nodded and looked towards the floor, suddenly nervous.

"My father is almost never home," you heard yourself say without your brain's permission. "If you were to stop by some night, I am sure my maid and I should like the company."

Only after you had spoken the invitation did you glance up to find his eyes sparkling. Suddenly you felt uneasy. Why had you given into this man's demands. You did not wish to form a friendship or any sort of relationship with him. If you could only think before you spoke, you might have saved yourself some trouble. On the other hand, one dinner wouldn't kill anyone, and perhaps it would be nice not to be so lonely in that big house.

You realized he still hadn't responded. He was reaching for you hand again. You let him take it and he wrapped both his hands around it. They were softer than the other men who had held your hand, more inviting.

"I would be truly honored, my lady. I will call by your house tomorrow night then?" he confirmed.

"That would be fine," you tried to sound uninterested. The thought of this man in your house with you sent chills through your body. For a moment you were reminded of the feelings of sensing your mother's ghost. There was something extremely frightening, but also strangely comforting about all this.

You left Thomas staring after you as you walked through the lobby. You saw Kristen staring daggers at you before she returned her gaze to where it apparently had been before - Thomas. You did not look back. You did not see that Thomas had eyes only for you, though throngs of equal or superior beauty surrounded you.


	3. Fiction and Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Thomas have dinner together.

If you were writing the narrative of the hours before Sir Thomas Sharpe arrived at your house for dinner, you could only explain them as frantic and nervous. You would not admit that you cared what this man thought of you and your dinner preparations. It was not as though you had any need or want to impress the stranger. Indeed, you began to wonder why it was you were even having him over in the first place. You cursed your vanity for letting him influence you with mild flattery. Well, you would simply have to get through this evening and wait until he had gone back to England.

You knew in your heart that you would wish to see him again after dinner. If nothing else, he was an interesting character study that you could pull from for your next story.

Margaret kept giving you knowing smiles and sidelong glances as she helped you prepare a simple meal. You had baked a turkey to near perfection and compiled a list of side dishes that complemented it nicely. You set the table with the nicest place settings and glanced at the clock. There was still a half an hour before he arrived. You started fidgeting in your seat. Was your dress okay, or too fancy for such an intimate setting? Was your hair still in place since you had checked it moments ago?

"You look fine, love," you glanced up and saw Margaret leaning against the door frame of the dining room, grinning at you.

"Thank you, Margaret, but I was hardly concerned," you brushed it off.

"Sure," she answered sarcastically. You threw her a warning glance. "Sir Thomas is a lucky man," she said with that glint of superiority in her voice.

"I don't know what you mean," you lied. "I am simply entertaining a new friend who happens to enjoy my writing."

"Okay," she replied simply. She dusted a glass and left you to your thoughts.

You felt a need to defend yourself more than you had. Surely you were not acting like a young girl with a crush? Surely you could not have been so affected by your one interaction with this mysterious man as to warrant such feelings? _No,_ you told yourself. _I do not have time or desire to woo_ _or be wooed by this man._

You were lost in your thoughts, debating your feelings over this man as well as trying to distract yourself from those thoughts that you almost missed the knock at the door. You stood straight up and heard Margaret chuckled softly to herself as she answered the door for you. Suddenly you did not know how to stand. Should you go and greet him or would he prefer if you stayed where you were?  _Who cares what he prefers,_ you reminded yourself, and went to greet him in the foyer.

You were loathe to find your memory had not done you justice. The man you had pegged as handsome in your memory should have been labeled ethereal. Thomas was glancing around, admiring the high arches and carved doorways of your household. You took one more step towards him that, although silent, caught his attention as though you had called to him.

"My lady," Thomas bowed slightly. 

"Oh please," you scoffed. "There's no need for that. This is America, a handshake will do."

He smiled slightly and nodded, reaching for your hand. You turned away slightly as he kissed your hand with his tender lips. Your glance caught Margaret's and you thought of hitting her for that know-it-all look on her face. You simply scowled at her and returned your attention to Thomas who was now awaiting your lead.

"I have prepared dinner, right through there," you pointed to the dining room's entryway. "If you'll just--"

Thomas took your arm in his as though it were the most natural thing in the world. You had planned on simply leading him into the room, having him follow you at a respectable distance. You did not expect to feel the warmth of his arm, feel surprised at strong hold, or feel the tingling sensations you did at his touch.

"This way," you managed to choke out. You cleared your throat, hoping that with it, all the nervousness you felt would go away.

Thomas seemed perfectly at ease. Perhaps this was a mistake. Your father was not home. There was no one here except Margaret who seemed more than happy to leave you to... whatever this was. The room suddenly felt small. Shaking your head you decided that no one, especially not a man, could make you feel like this in your own home. Especially not one who meant nearly nothing to you.

Reaching the dining room, Thomas unwound his arm from yours and walked over to a seat with a plate to pull out a chair for you. You eyed him suspiciously but he merely gestured to the chair and pushed it in as you sat. You watched him circle the table to the opposite side where the other setting lay. Between you was a few feet of table, some food, and a candle. You were thankful for the space between you. Although you hoped your face held only a neutral expression, you could not be sure. You didn't like the idea of Thomas already having read your work. This made you feel as though he could already see inside you.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing to the turkey. You nodded. He sliced the bird carefully and skillfully, offering you the first plate.

Once you both had your food, the only sounds of the room were the clock and the clinking of plates and utensils. You had brought out wine and were now extremely grateful for it. Taking a few deep sips, you could feel it helping you unwind a bit of the tension that Thomas had caused.

You were staring at your plate for a long time before he spoke.

"So," he started, his voice sharper than the knife he now held to cut the turkey, "How did you get into writing?"

It was a simple enough question, but one that no one had thought to ask you before. No one had cared or taken you seriously enough to ask you. You stared at him with no small amount of awe at his question. His face contorted into one of remorse.

"I beg your pardon if that was a rude question, I merely--"

"No," you interjected before he could apologize. "It's fine, really. I just... No one has ever asked me that before," you admitted. You suddenly became defensive. "Why do you care?" you asked. Surely he must have some kind of motive. He couldn't just _care_ about your history or writing, could he?

Thomas looked taken aback for a moment at your tone, but relaxed after a moment.

"Because I wonder where such creativity and imagination came from," he sounded genuine.

You slumped a little in your chair. He was truly vexing. What was his actual motive?

"Why are you here, anyway?" you deflected. "Surely England is more inviting than America."

Thomas shook his head and took a sip of wine.

"My sister and I have traveled here in search of some funding. I am an inventor," he said proudly.

"An inventor?" you said, sounding more condescending than you meant.

"Yes," he seemed unphased. "The clay that our house sits upon is very valuable, but there is no easy way to extract it from the earth," he explained. You saw a light in his eyes as he started talking about the invention. "My plan is to build an automated digger that will both dig up and sift the clay. However, the Sharpe family fortune has diminished severely and no one in England seems to care much for my 'hobby' as they call it."

You let out a short laugh and he looked at you, hurt.

"I'm sorry," you prefaced. "That's just what everyone calls my writing too. A 'hobby'," you explained. He seemed to recover quickly and gave you a sympathetic smile.

"Passion, I think is a more appropriate word," he smirked. For some reason the way he said 'passion' made you shiver.

"My mother," you said suddenly. He looked confused. "My mother is how I got into writing. Her death helped me..." you trailed off, suddenly lost in those memories.

"It was the same for me," Thomas chimed in, pinning you back to the present. "When she passed I needed to keep busy so I started tinkering. At first I made toys for Lucille, and then larger apparatuses for the house. It was very therapeutic," he reflected.

You smiled in spite of yourself. Who would have thought you had this deep of a connection? 

There was another stretch of not entirely uncomfortable silence before he spoke again.

"You are unlike many of the women I have met here, my lady," Thomas said. "I just thought I might say. Not too many would brave the world of men out of a passion for writing."

You shrugged.

"I don't want to do anything else," you admitted. "Just as I assume you don't want to do anything other than inventing, even though it is equally as daft," you answered.

"Daft?" he repeated. For a moment you thought you might have offended him, but then he chuckled a deep, almost sensual laugh.

"What?" you asked, failing to find the humor in your statement.

"Not many women talk to me in such a way," he admitted. You frowned.

"How do they talk then?" you asked, wondering how you were different.

"They flatter me," he answered. "They believe that my foreignness and my name is something to covet. I believe they think me to be a suitable husband," he said, not missing the chance to check your expression and therefore opinion on the matter. You kept your facade indifferent.

You reached inside yourself for the boldness that you needed.

"I would rather die alone than marry a man," you stated. Thomas' eyebrows raised as he smirked.

"Really?" he asked. You shrugged again.

"Love is a distraction," you informed him. "I do not have time for such things. Thomas watched you carefully.

"But surely you would need a love story somewhere in your writing?" he asked.

"So?"

"So, don't most writers take from experience? How are you to know how the true passions of love are felt? How the soul can be ripped in two or sewn together by mere words of a lover? How could you possibly know what it is to feel the connection that bonds two people when they are writhing together in bed?"

He stopped once your cheeks had turned sufficiently pink.

"That's why they call it fiction," you answered once you had recovered. "You can make it up, fake it."

Thomas shook his head.

"Your readers would know. I would know. You couldn't fake writing about real love. Not for long."

He took a slow and steady sip of wine and your mind wondered what it would be like to taste the wine from his lips.

"Well," you recovered. "There's really no point to it anyway, I am destined to be alone forever."

Thomas gave you that look that Margaret had been casting at you all evening - like he knew something you didn't.

"Not all love is a distraction," he countered. "It can often be the stuff of inspiration."

"I would not let something so trivial as a man inspire me," you scoffed. This was more of a defense rather than a tried and true belief.

Thomas lifted his hands as if to defend himself.

"Forgive me, my lady. I meant only to help."

You sighed and gave him a tentative smile.

"Apologies," you said softly. "I merely meant that I would prefer to draw inspiration from myself and my experiences."

Thomas gave you a mischievous smile.

"Perhaps I could help," he nearly whispered.

Before you could react to the effect the innuendo had on your mind and body, Margaret was at the door frame.

"Do you need anything, miss? Or may I retire?"

You shook your head and cleared your throat, praying to sound normal.

"It's fine, Margaret, you can go to bed. Thank you."

She nodded to you and Thomas and went upstairs. Now you were truly alone. You turned your attention back to Thomas, expecting to see that lustful gaze of his, but instead found mild interest.

"Who do you read?" he asked suddenly. This was a subject you could feel comfortable in, and perhaps he knew this for he smiled when you looked relieved.

You spent the rest of the evening discussing your favorite authors who, it turned out, were similar to Thomas'. It was remarkable how easily the conversation flowed and even more remarkable at how comfortable you felt. The hours had passed by before Thomas glanced at the clock.

"Oh my, I really should be heading home," he said, standing. "Lucille will be quite worried by now."

You followed his lead and stood to follow him into the foyer. You longed for him to take your arm as he had when you entered, but he denied you this. Instead, he put on his coat and hat, turning to you for a goodbye. Suddenly you did not want him to leave. The house would feel so empty, especially with Margaret already in bed. However, it would have been quite inappropriate for you to ask him to stay any longer, especially when he had someone waiting for him at home. You twisted your dress in your hands nervously.

"Good night, my lady," he said softly. He leaned in and you froze as he placed a gentle kiss upon your cheek. You relaxed as he started to pull away and felt yourself leaning in towards him. "We should do this again soon," he smiled warmly at you.

"Yes," you agreed, trying not to sound too eager. "Soon."

With that he nodded once again, glancing at you for a few more seconds before heading back out into the cold night.


	4. Father Knows Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your father returns from his business trip with a proposition for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for your kudos and comments, they mean the world!

From somewhere deep in your sleep, you heard the door open downstairs. Stretching your legs out, you yawned. You could tell before you opened your eyes that it was far too early to be awake, but now there was no going back. Your eyes fluttered open to the warm morning light spilling softly through your windows. You moved slowly, your ears picking up the light clunking and bumps no doubt caused by your newly returned father.

It was always a mixed blessing when he returned from his long business trips. You did love your father. After your mother died, he was the only family that remained. However, his constant badgering to marry you off to some horrible man was wearing you down. Part of you knew it was out of concern for your well being in a society where an unmarried woman would be scorned or even outcast. Another part of you knew he wanted you away from the house because you reminded him too much of the woman he had lost. For that you could not blame him, nor could you completely understand.

You took the stairs lightly, the soft carpet a welcome friend of your feet. Wrapping your dressing gown around you for warmth, you descended the stairs, peeking around the corners for a sign as to where he had settled in. When you reached the bottom stair you smelled that familiar tobacco scent and knew he was in his study. Knocking on the door, you heard him mumble something like _come in._

"Good morning, father. How was your trip?" you asked, seeing his familiar round form nestled into his favorite plush armchair.

"Long," was his response. His eyes looked tired and he took a long draw from his wooden pipe.

"Not too stressful, I hope," you tried to sound enthusiastic, caring.

He shook his head, although it was more out of disillusionment than a reaction to your question.

"My dear, it is always stressful to be away from you," it took effort for him to say. "Come," he gestured to the desk chair next to him.

You obliged and settled down beside him. The wrinkles on his face seemed to have deepened in his weeks away, and his usually clean-shaven face was more than a little stubbly.

He took your hand in his and gazed woefully into your eyes.

"When are you going to get married?" he asked blatantly.

You sighed, exasperated. This was a common question you were tired of answering.

"Never, if I can help it," you repeated yourself for the hundredth time. "I will belong to no man. I can take care of myself."

Your father shook his head and took another drag from his pipe.

"I worry when I'm away," he admitted. "Margaret is not a substitute for the protection of a man."

You scoffed at him.

"Since when do I need protecting?" you asked. He gave you a tired smile in return.

"Perhaps not protection so much as... Companionship then?" he tried. "It must get rather lonely here with only Margaret for company. And she won't be around forever," he added.

You frowned, he wasn't exactly wrong on that point. Seeing your wavering expression, he seized the moment.

"I met a very nice young man on my travels," he smiled, some light returning to his features. "Oliver, his name was. A doctor, no less. A few years older than you, but very well respected and--"

"No," you interjected before you he could try to sell you more on this. "I will not marry one of your old business associates," you scowled. "I am perfectly fine here. Just the other night I had company over. I am not so lonely as you think."

Your father raised his brows in surprise.

"I thought you hated everyone around here," he said almost proudly.

You sighed.

"I did... I do," you stumbled. "But I managed to find someone who was at least tolerable. For a few hours anyway."

"What is the name of this mystery guest?" he inquired.

"Sir Thomas Sharpe," you answered.

"Sharpe," he repeated. "I don't know the name."

You explained Thomas' origins to your father as he had not been in town to hear the gossip. He seemed to look at you in a new light and it scared you.

"And you like this young bachelor?" he asked.

You fidgeted.

"He's alright I guess," you managed. Inside your thoughts were swirling. You hated to admit that, despite yourself, you had not stopped thinking about him since he left the other evening.

"That is praise coming from you," your father smiled. You rolled your eyes. "Does this Sharpe character enjoy your company as well?"

"He was the one to ask for it," you concluded. "So I suppose, yes."

You could see the wheels turning in your father's mind. A new candidate for your hand in marriage - someone to take care of you for him.

"I will make you a deal," he said carefully. "If you marry within two months, I will personally deliver, and ensure the publication of, your little ghost story."

Your heart leaped. He had never taken your writing seriously. Although he had the power to influence the publishing house, he had never offered to use it for your benefit. He could get your work out to the world... You chewed your lip, thinking it over.

"You do not have to answer right now," he said carefully. He didn't want to spook you. "But I believe this is a win-win scenario. You get a husband, a stable life, and the notoriety that you, for some reason, seek."

Your mind was reeling. There were many men who had shown their interest in your hand, but would it be worth belonging to a _man_ in order to attain your first publication? The opportunity would no doubt repeat itself once people read your work. Your father would have peace of mind. Perhaps you could find someone tolerable within two months. You thought back to your dinner with Thomas and your heart fluttered. He was the most tolerable, dare you say enjoyable man you had met thus far.

Your father could see that you were seriously considering this for the first time and seemed triumphant.

"I thought you might like that proposal," he said smugly.

"Don't get your hopes up," you muttered, making to leave the study. In your mind you had already decided: it would be worth it for the art. Now it was only a matter of going through with it.


	5. A Family Picnic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas invites you on a picnic where you meet his troubling sister, Lucille.

Your father's proposition had not left your mind since the morning of his return. Now, a few days later, you sat in your room, writing, barely thinking of the words your hand was aimlessly scrawling across the blank pages. You suddenly heard a knock on the door from downstairs and cocked your head to the side, wondering who would be calling on you in the middle of the day.

You listened as Margaret answered the door. You heard low rumblings of voices and then Margaret's telltale climb up the stairs and to your door. You laid down your silver pen and turned expectantly towards the door.

When she knocked, you welcomed her in. She wore a smile that would befit a child who had stolen some cookies out of the cookie jar without permission.

"There's someone here for you, miss," you teased. "A Sir Thomas Sharpe."

She watched your reaction carefully, but you would not oblige her with giddiness. You simply stood, trying to master the butterflies in your stomach and thanked her for the information. She frowned, hoping for a more cheerful reaction, but led the way downstairs.

Again you were struck by the beauty that Thomas exuded. It was not only his sharp features and piercing eyes, but the way he held himself. He seemed to be much wiser and mature than his age would suggest. He was standing in the foyer, clutching his hat nervously in his hands and talking to your father. Oh no. You rushed down the rest of the stairs, careful not to push Margaret over as you moved her out of your way. Leaving your father alone with the man you had admitted to liking was a terrible idea. He probably would propose marriage for the two of you right there and you were sure you'd die of embarrassment that very moment. Thankfully as you got into ear shot you heard that they were simply discussing Thomas' business in England.

"Ah, there you are," you father welcomed you warmly with an energy you had not seen in a long time. "Sir Sharpe here was just informing me on his business plans back home."

"Thomas, please," Thomas corrected him with a small smile. "My lady," he nodded a greeting to you.

"Thomas," you greeted, your voice shakier with nerves than you would have liked.

Your father and Margaret shared a glance and a smile that neither escaped, nor pleased you. They were acting like school children trying to get their two friends to kiss beneath the mistletoe.

"What brings you to our house this afternoon?" you asked.

"My sister and I were wondering if you would like to join us on a picnic. I apologize for not sending word earlier, but it was not planned. I would understand if you would rather not--"

"No, please," you cut him off almost too eagerly. You smiled and took a breath. "I would love to join the two of you."

Thomas nodded and smiled genuinely. You could feel your father beaming at you. Avoiding his gaze, you moved to get your coat. It was the beginning of fall, but as you wrapped yourself inside the coat, you were thankful for the barrier between you and the man who may soon enough become your husband.

Thomas shook your fathers hand and held his arm out to you. You walked towards him and his hand settled on the small of your back, making your legs feel weaker than they should. You scorned him for making you feel these weak feelings and yet here you were, enjoying the tingling in your back where his hand lay.

"Take care of her," your father tried to sound casual, but you knew the meaning of his words.

"On my life," Thomas responded more to you than your father.

Thomas led you out into the crisp air and towards a waiting carriage. Through the glass you could see an outline of a woman sitting absolutely still, almost as though she were a painted silhouette. Thomas opened the door for you and you carefully stepped inside. You took the seat across from the woman, taking her in. Her features echoed that of her brother's. Her sharp countenance and penetrating eyes were similar, but not as welcoming. She wore an extravagant black dress. Your eyes followed down her laced sleeves to the red ring that lay on her left hand.

Before you could say anything to her, Thomas slid in beside you and closed the carriage door. You were momentarily distracted by his thigh touching yours and you did your best not to let it show.

"Lucille, this is the woman I have been telling you about," he addressed his sister.

Her cold eyes roamed over your whole body and it was as though she were seeing you as a ghost.

"Hello," you offered, as warmly as you could. "It's lovely to meet you." You held out your hand but she did not take it.

Her eyes stayed on you for a few more seconds before flickering over to Thomas'. She gave a forced smile.

"She's lovely," her voice strained to sound even mildly interested.

You dropped your hand and placed it awkwardly back in your lap. You nearly jumped out of your skin when you felt Thomas' hands wrap around yours. You turned to see him smiling admiringly down at you.

"I certainly think so," he said softly. Your heart fluttered despite your protests. "But I daren't say it to her, or she might smite me," he jested.

You dropped your gaze and smiled.

"I suppose I will allow it," you barely spoke above a whisper. What was it about this man and his half-hearted flattery that affected you so?

You could almost hear Lucille's eye roll. The carriage began to move.

"Where are we headed?" you asked, trying to both engage Lucille and distract yourself from Thomas' smooth hands on yours.

"The park down the street," Lucille answered off-hand. She seemed to be staring at your and Thomas' hands, although you were sure she was simply staring into space.

 

"Oh, lovely," you said, trying your best to be cheerful. For some reason you wanted Lucille to like you. It was not simply because she was Thomas' sister... It was also because you felt a coldness from her and you hated when people openly disliked you. "I used to go there with my mother all the time," you remembered. "She used to help me catch butterflies," you smiled at the memory.

"Our mother always made us catch rats," Lucille said bitterly. "Good old Mom, right Thomas?" she asked venomously.

Thomas looked at her hatefully for a moment, but when he noticed your attention, softened his features. He turned to you.

"Our mansion has always had a problem with pests," he explained. "Things tend to live there that really should not."

Lucille gave an ironic smile and you wondered if there was more to that description that they were not saying. You didn't have long to ponder the thought before the carriage stopped and you had arrived.

Thomas was the first to step out of the carriage. You watched his graceful form and wondered what it must be like to life with an effortless grace. He extended his hand to you and helped you down. You did not exhibit the same grace as he did and stumbled, catching your foot on a rock as you stepped down. You started to fall, but Thomas caught you as naturally as breathing. He held you in his arms, your chest pressed to his, your breathing a bit ragged, as you forced your blushing face up towards his.

"I'm sorry," you muttered, gaining your footing but not moving away. His grip on you had not loosened, nor did you want it to. His eyes searched your almost hungrily.

Only the sound of the carriage closing broke the spell between you two. You turned your head to see Lucille glaring at Thomas. Clearly she had wanted help getting down too and you had ruined that for her. It seemed you could not win with this woman. Thomas still held you tightly and you started to feel smaller as her glare came down to you.

Suddenly her face softened and she extended her hand.

"Let's find a spot to sit," she offered in a sickly-sweet voice.

With reluctance, you freed yourself from Thomas' embrace to take her arm. You felt his hands linger on your form longer than necessary. Lucille did not miss this, and the moment her arm was in yours, she whisked you away from him.

You walked quickly, trying to keep up with her rapid pace. She had left the picnic basket behind her, leaving Thomas to pick it up and trail behind the two of you.

"What about that tree?" you suggested.

Her smile frightened you. It was as though it did not belong on such features as cruel as hers.

"Wonderful," she responded.

You were confused about this polarity of her personality to say the least. Did she like you or hate you?

You followed her lead over to the large oak tree and settled down beside her as she sat down. You wondered if she should be sitting on the ground in such a lovely dress, but she did not seem bothered. Thomas soon caught up with the basket and laid it in front of you, sitting down opposite you.

Your arm was still laced with Lucille's and you could not bring yourself to free it, lest you set her off again. You did not have to wait long, however, for she released your arm in order to open the basket. You let out a small sigh of relief and glanced over at Thomas. He quickly lowered his gaze to the ground and you saw a small blush appear on his cheeks. He had been staring at you.

As Lucille began to unpack the meal, you spoke.

"So what was it like growing up in England?" you asked. "It must have been lovely."

Lucille shot you a patronizing look.

"You would think so," she laughed.

"It was quite like here," Thomas offered. "However, our house is not close to the town, so it was actually rather isolated."

"It still is," Lucille added. "No one wants to live on a clay earth."

"Clay?" you asked. "I didn't know that's where you lived, I thought you just mined it."

"We live there in order to mine it easier," Thomas explained. "Although we have a ways to go before we perfect the practice."

"A fortune to go," Lucille muttered, placing plates of food before all three of you. She extracted a bottle of wine and three glasses as well, filling them half way.

"I can't imagine the two of you as children," you admitted, smiling. They both seemed too serious to ever have been anything but adults.

"It was just Lucille and I," Thomas reflected, his gaze far away in the past. "After our mother died, we only had each--"

"Wine?" Lucille interrupted pointedly.

You were lost listening to Thomas' voice and so startled at her abrupt question.

"Sure," you acquiesced.

Lucille handed you a glass. As she gave one to Thomas, it was accompanied by a look that was meant to silence him.

Lucille raised her glass with her left hand and you noticed the enormous red ring again.

"Are you married?" you asked, pointing at the intricate ring.

Lucille smiled.

"No," she answered.

"Why not?" you asked.

"Never found a man as good as my brother," she said almost seductively. They way she looked at Thomas felt... wrong. You shook the thoughts away, sure that you must have simply misinterpreted the situation.

"He is quite the gentleman," you said, trying to ease the tension. "And you?" you asked Thomas, not daring to meet his eyes. "You're not.. married?" You twisted your dress with your free hand. Your heart didn't dare to consider an affirmative answer.

"I was," Thomas said softly after a long silence. "She passed away about a year ago."

There was a heavy silence that fell on the three of you. Thomas looked a bit broken, Lucille looked as though he had just betrayed her in some way. He would not meet her gaze.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," you muttered. "I didn't know."

"She was sick," Lucille explained curtly. "Weak."

Thomas nodded absently. You averted your gaze to avoid any awkwardness and saw a butterfly coming towards you. Suddenly you smiled, thankful for the distraction and small ray of happiness.

"Look," you pointed.

Thomas and Lucille's gazes snapped up to follow your direction. Thomas gave a small smile, sadness still heavy in his eyes. Lucille looked in a predatory way at it. You held out your finger and it landed there, fluttering its golden wings slowly.

"It's beautiful," Thomas offered.

You brought it down and over to Lucille. Amazingly, it stayed on your finger.

"Look at those wings," you marveled.

Lucille moved to touch one of the yellow wings. Her fingers barely grazed it and it started to fly away. You frowned as it seemed to be struggling. It fluttered its wings for a few moments and then simply fell from the air, onto Lucille's lap. It twitched for a few moments and then stilled.

"Is it dead?" you asked tentatively.

Lucille looked nonplussed.

"Yes," she answered evenly. She pinched its waist, took a moment to gaze coldly at the body of the butterfly, and then flung it away from her.

You felt very uneasy. Sure, it was simply an insect, but the manner of Lucille's reaction disturbed you. A living thing had just died in her hand and yet she showed no interest.

"We have moths at our house all the time," Thomas explained. "They're always nesting in the walls and dying. You sort of get used to it."

You knew he was trying to defend the behavior of his sister that was so out of the ordinary. He did his best, but it did not sound as though he believed what he was saying.

"Of course," you said, despite your discomfort. "I understand."

"Would you like to go for a walk?" Thomas offered suddenly. You realized the question was only intended for you.

"Yes," you answered, desperate to get away from Lucille.

"We will return shortly, sister," Thomas said, getting up. He kissed the top of her head sweetly before extending his hand to you.

You took it gratefully and stood, looking down at Lucille who seemed very lost.

"We'll be back soon," you offered her. She showed no indication that she had heard you. You looked at Thomas who shrugged as if to say _she's like this sometimes._

Now Thomas' hand in yours did not seem so much thrilling as it did natural. There were still hints of the butterflies in your stomach, but now you noticed more of the way his hand fit perfectly with yours. You walked hand in hand saying nothing for a long time.

"I am sorry about Lucille," he offered after a long time. "She is not the easiest person to get to know. But she is my sister, my whole life," he said. "Well, I suppose not my _whole_ life. Not anymore," he amended. You could not bring your blushing face to meet his gaze.

"She is fine," you assured him. "Given time, I am sure we will be the best of friends. Like sisters, even."

You blushed harder, realizing the implications of what you had just said. You could sense Thomas' smug smile, but he said nothing.

You walked for a few more minutes before returning to the oak tree. Lucille was standing, having packed away all the picnic materials. She said nothing as she turned to walk towards you. Glancing behind her, your stomach dropped as you saw at least ten dead butterflies littering the ground she had sat upon.


	6. The Envy of Aphrodite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas escorts you to a gala where you are the envy of all.

Not even a week after your picnic with the Sharpes you were invited to attend a gala event hosted by perhaps the snootiest woman in town. Miss Regina Applegate was second only to your family's wealth. She was apparently holding a ball to celebrate the coming of winter. You rolled your eyes at the unnecessarily extravagant invitation and tossed it onto the credenza. 

"You will be attending Miss Applegate's ball, won't you?" you heard your father's voice from around the corner. How did he know already?

"Not if I can help it," you nearly laughed. When had he known you to willingly go to these events?

"Really?" he asked, coming around the corner at last. He held in his thick hands an envelope with your last name on it.

"What's that?" you asked. Your father gave a victorious smile.

"Oh nothing," he feigned. "Just a letter from Sir Thomas Sharpe, asking to be your escort to Miss Applegate's event." He turned his head away from you as if to convince you he didn't care about it, but kept his eyes carefully on you.

You squirmed. Thomas had immediately asked you to be his date to an event. You wondered how he worded such a request; probably exceedingly suavely. Extending your hand, you sighed.

"Give it here," you commanded.

"I thought you didn't want to go," your father pretended to be shocked. You did not move your hand and he eventually conceded to handing the letter over.

You turned it around nervously and opened it. The paper was heavy, as though it were expensive. The handwriting was one of a well-educated, precise man.

It read:

_Dear (Y/L/N) family,_

_I am writing to acquire the consent of the beautiful (y/n) to accompany her to the gala that is to be held by Miss Applegate this coming weekend. It would be my utmost pleasure to assure the safety and happiness of the lady for the evening. If appropriate, please send back a letter confirming this arrangement._

_Truly yours,_

_Sir Thomas Sharpe_

A stupid grin had spread itself upon your face and you quickly tried to hide it, but it was too late. your father had seen your reaction. You cleared your throat in hopes of scaring away the excitement from your voice before you spoke.

"I suppose I should make an appearance," you allowed. "And I would feel better in the company of a man who does not make me want to vomit, unlike the usual company to be found at such events."

It was not untrue that the men at these societal events were less than decent fellows. Although most of them came from money, they were not as wealthy as you, and often only wanted your attention for the fortune you could bring them through marriage. Then there were the older, married men, who were not nearly as faithful as their wives imagined them to be. Yes, it would be good to have Thomas there with you, as your father would no doubt make your attendance mandatory since he was in town.

Thomas would also save you from having to interact with the other girls. Their caddy natures and shallowness had never appealed to you. You never connected with any of them.

"I will write him back," your father answered smugly.

You truly hated how everyone was apparently so aware of your affection for this man. You didn't hesitate or deny it any longer. The more time you spent with him or thinking about him, the more you realized you truly did care for the man.

The morning of the gala, you awoke to a knock on your door. Thinking it was Margaret, you slumped out of bed, ready to tell her you preferred to sleep in this morning.

As you opened it, you startled back, not expecting your father to be standing there with a large box.

"Good morning," he greeted cheerfully.

"Morning," you mumbled, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

He wasted no time in pushing forwards, so you stepped aside and let him. He laid the box down on the bed and stood beside it, grinning.

"What is it?" you asked, angry to be woken from sleep so abruptly.

"Open it," he said.

You approached the box slowly. It was more of a rectangle the more you examined it. Your brain was rusty with sleep so you had no guesses. It wasn't your birthday or a holiday, so what was this all about? Your father wasn't one for random gifts.

You opened the box easily and set the top aside to reveal the most beautiful red dress you had ever seen. Taking the shoulders in your hand, you pulled the dress out and held it up to your body. Walking over to the mirror, you examined it.

The long sleeves and top part of the bodice was lace. That bled into the form fitting body that gave way to the flowing skirts beneath it. It was absolutely stunning. You swung it a bit to see how it moved and heard a soft chuckle behind you.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

"It is stunning," you answered. "Just for the gala? Why would you go to such trouble?" you asked.

"I thought it might not hurt to look your best. Just in case you plan to catch someone's eyes," he shrugged, trying to look nonchalant.

"Well, I would settle for looking good for me," you frowned; but the thought of making Thomas' eyes go wide, watching his pupils dilate at the sight of you was also enticing.

"Yes, well... Whatever works," your father conceded.

After that, the day passed unbelievably slowly. You tried to write, but found yourself distracted by daydreams. This had never happened before. Surely you weren't turning into one of the vapid girls you hated?

When at last the time came to get ready, you spent more than the time that might have been necessary. Margaret helped lace you into the dress which accentuated every curve perfectly and fit like a glove. She helped you do your hair into perfect curls that fell lightly around your face.

Finally, you sat and waited for Thomas' arrival. When at last he came, you forced yourself to stay seated until he was shown in. Once you heard the front door close behind him you stood. Walking slowly and holding your breath, you entered the foyer. Thomas' eyes immediately snapped to you and traveled the length of your body several times before coming to rest on your face.

He bowed.

"My princess," he exalted. You blushed. "I can only imagine that Aphrodite herself is sitting in her chambers, writhing in jealousy."

"Yes, well, flattery will get you very far," you jested. He smiled and stood upright.

"You look lovely," your father chimed in, breaking your gaze from Thomas'. You honestly hadn't even seen that he was in the room.

"Thank you, father," you gave a shy smile.

Thomas extended his arm to you, and you took it, wrapping your arm safely through his.

"The gala awaits," Thomas prompted.

"Oh joy," you replied sarcastically.

Waving goodbye to your father and Margaret, you allowed Thomas to lead you to the carriage that waited outside. This time there was no looming figure of Lucille inside. Your stomach twisted knowing that it would just be you and Thomas in this small space together for about a half hour.

Thomas opened the door and helped you in before sliding in himself. Instead of taking the seat across from you as you assumed he would, he sat himself right next to you. He took your hand and pressed his lips to it as though you had been together forever and this was perfectly natural. You blushed again and gripped his hand tightly in yours. He rapped on the carriage window and the driver took off.

For a long time you simply looked at each other. Your eyes wandered down the amazing suit he was wearing. It seemed like a second skin to him, more natural than his own flesh. His top hat lay beside him on the seat, but no hair had been moved out of place since its removal.

"May I say again how ravishing you look this evening?" he asked genuinely.

"If only I may say similarly of you," you countered. A thin smile crossed his lips.

"I will not be the one to hold their stares tonight," he promised, bringing your hand again to his lips. "I am truly blessed this evening. Thank you for accompanying me."

"I should thank you," you responded. "You will be my safeguard from the vapid debutantes and the gold digging fools. _"_

Thomas looked genuinely confused. 

"The men at these events are usually only interested in one of two things," you explained. "Money or... me," you implied. Thomas shook his head.

"That is inexcusable," he said. "How could they not want you as you are?" He seemed genuinely concerned. You shrugged.

"They are not you," was all you could come up with as an explanation.

Thomas took this as an acceptable answer for now and turned his gaze towards the window to watch the passing countryside. Nearly all the leaves had fallen from the trees and winter was fast approaching. You and Thomas sat in a comfortable silence for the remainder of the ride with the occasional comment upon the scenery or buildings.

When you arrived, he helped you out of the carriage, letting his eyes flow easily up your form again, admiring you. Under anyone elses gaze you might have felt exposed, but with Thomas, you knew he was simply admiring you, worshiping you even, if that Aphrodite comment was to be believed.

"This way," he led you up the stairs and into the dancing hall. The room was lit with many candles, the long table lined with white tablecloths. The large room was nearly filled with young adults. The girls wore mostly white or blue dresses in the spirit of winter so you stood out in stark comparison in red. You were watching Thomas as you entered the room and so missed all the heads in the room turning to watch you.

When you followed his smug gaze to the room of guests, you flinched. At least fifty pairs of eyes were on you. Not Thomas, you. You shrunk under the attention. Many of the men were eyeing you hungrily while the women scowled. Clearly you were the women's least favorite person here, while Thomas appeared to be the most envied man.

"See, they are enthralled by you, just as I am," you felt Thomas' hot breath against your ear as he whispered.

You were about to respond something about not wanting to be an object of enthrallment when you saw Regina break through the crowd of guests. She was wearing a white dress with many crystals laced into it. She approached you with the most fake smile you had ever seen.

"Welcome," she said with faux warmness. She kept her gaze on Thomas, completely ignoring you. "We are honored to have such an exotic guest, Sir Thomas. And you are just in time for the dancing." She then turned her gaze to you and immediately you felt the envy seeping out of her. "Of course, I'm sure you can have your pick of _any_ girl here," she added, batting her eyelashes at him.

A small laugh escaped your throat and you tried to cover it up as a cough. You saw Thomas smirk.

"I have an idea," she added. "Teach us how they dance in England!"

The crowd behind her murmured their agreement.

"Come," she offered her hand to Thomas, but he kept his arm firmly in yours. He merely nodded at her and stepped forward to follow her. Disappointment fell onto her face and she turned to lead him to the dance floor. "The floor is yours," she said to him, still standing a bit too close for your liking.

You took stock of the women around you. You recognized most of them. Their faces held a range of emotion from delight, to resentment, and even fear. Thomas definitely inspired different emotions in people.

You felt Thomas' arm slip from yours and caught his reassuring glance. He walked over to a table that held several long, white candles. He plucked one from its holder and the floor cleared for him, creating a circle.

"The Waltz," he projected his voice with more confidence than you would have had in front of this many people. "Is meant to be one fluid movement. The dancers should move in such unison as if they were one. The candle held by the dancers should move so swiftly and smoothly that it will not extinguish." He held the attention of absolutely everyone in that room as if he had brandished a weapon. "All you need is the perfect partner."

The women tingled with excitement at the thought that, although he arrived with you, he might pick them. He paced a bit around the circle with his candle before stopping in front of you. He held out his hand to you and gazed at you with the most adoring eyes you had ever seen.

"Would you be mine?" he asked so only you could hear.

The words were simple enough, his direct meaning was simple enough. And yet the weight of the words, his implications behind it could have weighed down a boat.

You swallowed hard, and, not trusting your voice, nodded. You heard the scoffs and various sounds of disenchantment from the women around you. All your life you had never been wanted. Not like this. In your father's eyes you had always been second to your mother. You were never the one he wanted. But here you were, among many eligible women, being asked for your permission to be wanted. Of course you accepted.

You slid your hand into Thomas', letting out a breath of nerves. He held the candle in his other hand as he led you to the middle of the dance floor. Thomas wrapped one hand around your waist and you grasped the other, letting the candle come between your hands. Thomas moved forward so his chest was pressed against your. Before you could draw another breath or register the flick of his tongue across his lower lip, you were off. Thomas whirled you around to the music that had begun to play somewhere behind you. As the world dissolved outside, you focused solely on Thomas and the way he focused on you. He did not seem to think about the next steps and for the first time, neither did you. Together you flew effortless across the floor, the candle's flame as strong as ever. It seemed like that moment would last for an eternity - the two of you alone in your own world - but soon enough the song ended. Thomas stilled his feet and you followed suit, still staring at him. Finally, when the clapping began, you blew the candle out, letting the smoke swirl around you.

"That was incredible," Regina spoke from behind you. "Surely you will give one of us ladies the pleasure of dancing with you this evening?" she prompted him.

Surely he would have to oblige. It would be rude to reject a woman of her standing, let alone the hostess. However, when he could manage to pull his eyes from yours, he smiled politely.

"I am afraid that I must refuse. I dance only where my heart lies."

His answer was simple, but your heart raced. You were where his heart lay. Regina's face wrinkled with shock and anger.

"If you'll excuse us," Thomas said evenly.

You openly gaped at him, choking back a laugh that threatened to escape. Regina stood in the middle of the dance floor, staring after you, stuck. No one had refused her. Ever. You couldn't help but glance back at her as you left the hall with Thomas.

Once outside in the hallway, you were pulled to the left and into an alcove. Thomas pulled his back up against the wall, and you up against him. That was when the laugh escaped.

"That was amazing," you praised him. "I've never seen her look like that. You're... You're my hero I think," you joked. A proud smile found its way onto his lips.

"Yes well, it would have been cruel to lie to her," he spoke softly.

Thomas' hand rose to brush against your cheek. You nuzzled into it before thinking.

"Did you mean what you said?" you asked with your eyes closed, still feeling his delicate touch on your face.

"Of course," he answered. There was a silence and you opened your eyes to his anxious expression. "Do you... Are you--"

You cut off his uncertainty with a kiss. It was new to say the least. You had not kissed anyone like this before. However with Thomas, you didn't doubt yourself. With your lips pressed against his, everything felt right. The hand he had held to your face drifted down to your neck to keep you pressed to him. His other hand found your waist and held you as if you were going to disappear into smoke. You wrapped your arms around his neck and held on as he slipped his tongue into your mouth. Surprised at this new sensation you pulled back for a mere moment, assessing his flushed face and smiling before diving back in for more. You kissed him passionately, letting him fill your senses and forgetting yourself for once. You kissed for a long time and still wanted more. You nearly groaned in protest when he pulled away, tucking a fallen curl behind your ear. Your body was still pressed against his and you looked up at him questioningly.

"I think I hear someone," he whispered.

He peeked out of the small alcove and sighed.

"Lucille," he whispered.

You pulled back from him and both hands returned to your sides. You felt your cheeks and found they were still hot. You tried to catch your breath before Lucille came to stand in front of you.

"There you are, brother," she scolded. "That was quite a display." Her accusing gaze extended to you, but she did not address you. Suddenly you wondered if she had seen you kissing.

"I did what I felt was right," Thomas defended himself. "You were an excellent pianist by the way," he added. Her face softened. That was her playing?

"Yes," you added, hoping to add to her favor. "I didn't know you were here, or that you played so well. It's really an admirable skill."

She frowned at you for some reason but did not respond. It seemed she were already angry with you for something although you had done nothing by flatter her so far. Again you thought she might have seen you kissing, but what consequence was that to her?

"We had better get going," she warned Thomas. "I do not believe the lady is pleased with your... choices," she said, glancing down at you. She was clearly waiting for Thomas to accompany her to the carriage, but he waited. Visibly stung, she ground her teeth. "I will meet you outside," she said.

"I was actually thinking we might walk a ways. We can hire a cab in town," Thomas said as an invitation to you. The thought of avoiding a ride with Lucille was ideal.

"That sounds lovely," you answered.

"Fine," Lucille spat. "I will see you at home."

Thomas simply nodded and turned his attention to you.

"Shall we?" he asked.

Outside the air was fresh and cold. It felt good against your still-hot cheeks and body. You walked slowly, in no rush to get anywhere. The night was still young and you thought you would rather spend all night walking with Thomas than go anywhere else.

Thomas began to probe you with questions about literature, knowing this was where you felt most at home, wanting to make you feel comfortable. You responded enthusiastically, discussing many different topics and authors with him, but your mind's eye kept returning to that kiss. You wanted to feel his lips on yours again. You wanted him to pull you close, to feel his body next to yours. You tried your best to keep in the conversation and soon you were more distracted by your aching feet than fantasies. Thomas noted your discomfort and hailed you a cab. Inside the warm box, you shamelessly snuggled up against Thomas, placing your head carefully on his shoulder.

Thomas seemed to welcome the advance and again took your hands in his. You said nothing for the short ride home. Thomas helped you out of the carriage and walked you to the door. Your heart slammed against your chest with the possibility of returning your lips to where they rightfully belonged. The faces of those jealous girls came back to you and you smiled proudly. You were wanted. You were desired. As much as you had always held your self esteem within yourself, you were glad to see it validated by someone so amazing as Thomas.

Now he stood before you on your doorstep, looking at you with that intensity you had only ever dared to write about. When he leaned in and captured your lips in his you thought you might fade into oblivion. Your head spun at the kiss and you were too shortly returned back to the real world when he pulled away. You wanted to lean in and continue this newfound activity, but he stood resolutely.

"Goodnight, my lady," he bowed slightly again. "It was truly an honor."

"Goodnight, Thomas," you answered. "Thank you for everything."

Your cheeks became hot again as you remembered what _everything_ included. You smiled at him, and he at you. You opened your door without looking back, and rested against it when it was closed. Your heart was still beating a samba and your hands shook. Despite your most valiant efforts, you could not wipe the smile off your face.


	7. These Violent Delights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Thomas are threatened after a play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small trigger warning: there are mild/moderate threats of violence in this chapter and a little bit of a physical alteration but nothing crazy. Certainly nothing worse than any of my other works, just thought I'd put it out there though. Also sorry it's a bit short!

As the days went on, outings with Thomas became more regular. You would spend time together in your home with your father over dinner, attend boring social events which were made more tolerably by his presence, and attend theater productions.

One night, you went to see a play at the local theater. The town had a fair amount of resources, and the actors that the town produced were more than adequate for your viewing pleasures.

The nights were beginning to turn into those whose winds whipped and airs chilled you to the bone. Nearly no leaves had been left behind from the storms that had come through as of late and it was beginning to feel more and more like winter every day.

The play was enjoyable and you were both in high spirits when you left. You walked the streets despite the cold, reveling in the emptiness of the lane and the glow of the moon. Discussing the play with Thomas was more involved than you thought. You both had opposing views on the sympathies for the characters. While your loyalty lay with the misunderstood villain, Thomas championed the prominent protagonist. You thought this interesting for it seemed that from the outside looking in on this dark, mysterious, man with a difficult past, he would have seemed for all the world like the villain in the play. He had said that he wanted to believe in the power of good over evil and that he wished to try and be more like the hero himself.

You were about to ask him more about his ideas of what made a good character, when you were stopped by a man. At first you were not aware that he was holding a knife. Only when Thomas stepped in front of you, arms out to shield you, did you peak around and realize the reason.

The man was haggard, and seemed to be almost propping himself up against the brick wall beside him, leering at you.

"You lot," he sneered. "Give me your money."

Thomas held a calm hand out towards the man.

"Please," he said evenly.

"I don't have time for please," the man slurred. "Give me your money or I will cut that whore into pieces."

Now that the wind had changed you could catch a whiff of the alcohol that wafted off the man. Although leaning against the wall, as if he were not in full control of his faculties, you did not for one second underestimate that look in his eyes. He was set on his plan. You reached for your purse, planning on attempting to placate him and hoping he would leave you alone afterwards; however, before you could even clasp your hands around the fastener, Thomas had moved.

When you registered what had happened, you nearly yelled from the surprise of it all. Thomas had the man by the throat against the brick wall. You rushed forward to the side of Thomas and froze, watching him. His hand squeezed tightly around the man's neck, surely bruising it if not cutting off airflow completely. His other hand had slammed the man's hand against the wall, knocking the knife out of it. You kicked the knife away. Thomas' face contorted with anger. Usually peaceful, the anger should have looked out of place, and yet you found yourself thinking that it almost looked more natural than his resting expression. His eyes flamed with hatred and you were all but invisible to him at the moment.

"You do _not_ threaten the woman _I love_ ," he spat at the man. "I should end you for this."

And for a moment, you thought he would. It seemed very likely that Thomas would squeeze harder. The man's already bluish face might turn even darker and the light might go out of his eyes. As passionate as he was about robbing you before, the passion to survive had replaced that in full. You felt tears of fear and pity run down your face. Before you could stop yourself, your hand was on Thomas' arm, trying to pry him off the man. The knife was gone now, there was no more risk. Thomas did not need to resort to drastic measures.

"Thomas," you pleaded. "Please, we are fine now, let's just go."

It took several moments for Thomas to shift his gaze to you. You caught the lingering remnants of the hatred in his eyes before they softened to the kind gaze you were more accustomed to.

"Please," you repeated.

You felt his arm soften beneath your fingers. He soon dropped the man completely and as soon as his grip was loose enough, the man wriggled out of it with a fleeting glance of guilt to you before sprinting down the street.

"You're shaking," Thomas turned to you completely, forgetting the man he meant to harm only moments ago. You wrapped your arms around yourself, unsure if you wanted Thomas to touch you.

He noted this retraction and let his hands fall at his sides.

"You were going to hurt that man," you half asked, half stated.

Thomas shook his head.

"I was going to kill that man," he admitted softly. You had know, sensed, that there had been a darkness in him. You had seen the light he possessed - the kindness, the sincerity - but now you had also witnessed the demons. It took a moment for the thoughts to register, but when they did you realized that it did not matter. He was protecting you - something many other men had sought the opposite of.

"Why?" was all you could think to ask. Surely disarming him had been enough. Suddenly the words came flooding back to you as if on a delay. _You do not threaten the woman I love._

Thomas' lips were pulled together in a thin line and he looked at you as though he were scared. Perhaps he thought you were about to run away from him.

Sighing like a man resigned to die he said, "Because I love you."

Hearing the words in that order was different. The sincerity in his eyes left little to the imagination.

"You love me," you repeated, just to make sure. You had just gotten used to the idea that someone wanted you. Loving... Well, that was something different entirely.

"Yes," he answered. "Is that so hard to believe?" he asked.

"No," you answered truthfully. "I suppose it is not." You watched his lips turn up into a small smile and added, "Because I believe I love you too."

You did not need to think about it to know it was true. The time you had spent with Thomas had been one of the most joyful times in your life. He understood you and, more importantly, _respected_ you, in a way that no other man, or woman for that matter, had before.

"Do you mean that?" Thomas asked, suddenly wavering in confidence.

"Of course," you giggled. "Is _that_ so hard to believe?"

He smirked at his own words and stepped to close the distance between you. His hot breath against the cold of the night, his warm body pressed close to yours in contrast with the biting wind, only served to further the enjoyment of the embrace. He gently cupped your face in his hands and it struck you as odd that you did not feel the least bit unsafe despite the fact that these same hands had nearly choked the life out of someone just a few minutes ago. His lips found yours and you closed your eyes, pulling him to you with all you had. You kissed like that on the side of the street, uncaring of anyone who wandered by and saw you.

When he pulled away and leaned his forehead against yours, you finally caught your breath.

"My love," he said breathlessly. You shuddered at his words. "We should return you to your home. I would hate for you to catch a cold on my account."

You would have gladly caught pneumonia if it meant you could kiss this man a few moments longer.

"Home," you repeated, frowning. "Meaning you will leave."

He sighed, kissing the top of your head.

"For the time being," he said. He made to add something to that, but stopped himself. "Come on," he smiled, leading you down the street.

Even with the violence of the night, the street still seemed peaceful and almost a little magical what with the events and proclamations it had just witnessed. You held on to Thomas feeling the most safe and happy you had in a long time.


	8. Would You Be Mine?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas has seemingly abandoned you, but where has he gone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bless you for all the kudos and love <3

The dreams that had started to come made you blush even in slumber. Thomas' hot body pressed against your naked flesh was something you had dared only imagine in the confines of your room at night. Your subconscious was not messing around. It knew what it wanted: Thomas. It had gotten to the point where you would giggle to yourself at how happy he had made you. It was incredibly foolish and you made sure to chastise yourself, but at the same time you invited the tingling sensations that every thought of Thomas aroused in you.

When he didn't call on you for a few days, you were merely disappointed. Apparently he had actual business to attend to. After all, he was here to raise money for his inventions. However, after the week had gone by with ne'er a word from the man, you began to doubt yourself. Had his proclamations of love on the street been a farce? Had he had time to think about them and realize they were untrue? No, surely he was just busy... And yet that nagging sensation in the pit of your stomach tugged all day and night. Your father had gone away on another business trip leaving even less distractions for you.

Day after day went by and still Thomas said nothing. You began to grow angry. Fine, you thought. You didn't need him. You never needed him. Wanted him, sure. But you never _needed_ him. You didn't need anyone. You were enough for yourself. You always had been. You made sure to repeat that mantra over and over, forcing yourself to believe it. You tried to write, but were still stuck on the love story. Every time you put your pen to paper, an image of Thomas would be conjured and you had to put the pen down again.

Sitting at your desk, you pulled out a new piece of paper. If Thomas was going to ignore you out of some childish fear to face ending things with you, you would give him a piece of your mind. When you began the address and salutations, your mind reeled with hateful things to say. How could he just abandon you with no explanation? How could he say those thing and then take them back by silence?

But as the wind whipped outside your window, and the snow fell peacefully onto the ground, your heart settled. The words that may have once held malice came out more as regret and sorrow. You poured your broken heart onto the page, explaining to Thomas that he had become your world. You explained what it was like to finally feel wanted and loved, and how it tore your heart to have that ripped away.

With a tear smudging your signature, you folded the letter and placed it in an envelope. You felt a little light headed as you found Margaret in the kitchen and handed her the letter, explaining that she should go to where the Sharpes were staying and hand this to Thomas. Her worried expression did nothing to lessen the pain in your chest and you turned away before she could offer pity or sympathy.

You waited for her to return, cursing the quietness of the empty house. You avoided the dining room where you and Thomas had spent your first meal together, and instead hid upstairs in your dark room. Watching outside the window, you finally saw Margaret returning, huddled in her jacket against the stormy winds. You walked calmly downstairs, ready for her tale of Thomas' indifference.

"Well?" you asked evenly.

Margaret hung up her coat and wiped her feet on the mat. She looked at you awkwardly.

"There was no one home, miss," she explained. "The house they were renting was empty. I left the letter in their mailbox with quite a few other unopened letters."

So they had been gone for quite a while then, you surmised.

"Thank you," was all you could force out before needing to turn around and run back upstairs.

The next few days were even more torturous. You thought the letter might give you clarity, closure, but it had not. Not knowing how Thomas was truly feeling left you feeling open and exposed. You paced your room, hating yourself for letting a man make you feel this uncomfortable.

Finally, you grabbed your coat, running downstairs to grab Margaret.

"Come on," you said. "We're going out."

Margaret put down her tea and looked up, surprised.

"Out where?"

"Anywhere," you said hastily, grabbing her arm to pull her up. "I need to get out of the house."

"Okay," she answered calmly, putting her mug in the sink before following you to the front door.

Bundling up in your coats as fast as you could, you rushed out the front door, thankful for the fresh cold air for a mild distraction.

Linking your arm with Margaret's, you began the trek to the main street of the town. The day would still not pass as quickly as you wanted. You shopped around, eventually buying a new nightgown for yourself as well as some sweets for you and Margaret. Eventually the stores started closing their doors and you were forced to consider returning home to that nearly empty house with nothing but your thoughts to occupy you.

Noting your despair, Margaret spoke up.

"Miss, perhaps he will return," she offered.

"Perhaps he has realized the error of his ways and left town for good," you countered. Margaret did not seem to buy it.

"I thought he truly liked you," she said quietly. "It does not seem as though this was in his nature. Perhaps there was a family emergency."

You sighed. All things you had thought of before. You dredged up towards your house and noticed two carriages in the driveway. Apparently your father had returned from his trip with a friend. At least that might help you distract yourself this evening.

You walked in behind Margaret and hung your coats by the door, leaving your snow covered boots beneath them.

Immediately you felt the warmth of your home and felt a little better. Hearing voices from the study, you walked carefully towards your father's thick door. There seemed to be muffled laughter coming from it. You knocked a few times and the voices went quiet. You heard footsteps coming towards the door and took a step back.

You readied yourself for your father's red face, bracing yourself for the news you would have to share with him about Thomas' abandonment. However, you found your breath snatched from your breast as Thomas himself answered the door. He smiled down at you warmly and swung the door wide open, revealing your father's smiling form at his desk.

You openly gaped at him. When had he gotten back? While you were away in town? Why was he back, and here of all places with your father? You felt a mix of anger, confusion, and immense relief. Was it not over then? Your mind flitted to the letter that most likely lay opened on a desk somewhere in his home.

Thomas said your name in that low, sultry voice you loved and your knees buckled. He moved aside to allow you entry and you forced your legs to move. You honestly thought you would never see him again, and yet here you were. He reached for your hand and you numbly let him kiss the back of it.

"Hello, darling," your father greeted from his desk. He looked happy for some reason, as though someone had just offered him a large amount of money.

"Hi," you managed a weak greeting to both of them.

"You look pale, love, are you feeling well?" Thomas asked, placing the back of his hand to your forehead to check your temperature. You nearly fainted at the sensation of his skin on yours again.

"I am fine," you tried to sound stronger than you felt. "Where have you been?" you asked more desperately than you intended.

Thomas' lips pulled into a small smile. He glanced at your father, who stood up and walked over to the two of you.

"I'll be outside," your father said with a mischievous grin and a wink at Thomas. What was happening here?

Once the door had closed, and you were alone with Thomas, everything seemed quieter.

"Where have you been?" you repeated, slightly angrier. "You left me alone with no explanation. I thought -- I still think --- Oh, I don't know!" you threw your hands up in frustration. You walked over to the chair opposite the desk and sat down, putting your head in your hands. You heard Thomas' light footsteps approach you, but you did not move. Gentle hands pulled yours away from your face and into his. Thomas was now kneeling before you.

"I have been out of town," he replied calmly. He looked at your hands as he spoke, as if he was seeing his journey imprinted on them. "I was with my sister... Getting something made," he said cryptically. You gave an exasperated sigh to which he only chuckled. "I had meant only to be away for a few days, and to inform you... But there was a storm where I was and all roads were closed to travelers and postmen alike."

Your eyes lifted to his and you felt your heart lighten a little at his words.

"Believe me, it pained me to be away from you for so long," he said, pressing your palm to his lips.

"Yes, well, as it should have," you answered defiantly. The right corner of Thomas' lips twitched up.

"Was I not missed at all?" Thomas asked, knowing the answer. You shrugged. He wasn't getting off this easy, even if it wasn't entirely his fault. "Your letter seemed to suggest otherwise," he watched your expression stretch into mild embarrassment.

"Oh," you answered, your cheeks flushing. "That." So he had read the letter.

"Yes, that," he mocked you mildly. Then his face fell. "I am sorry for leaving you in such a state," he said. "I hope I can make it up to you."

"I suppose I would be willing to let you try," you teased him, letting a smile ease onto your features.

You stood, wanting to embrace him, but he remained kneeling. He reached his hand into his pants pocket and held it there while he looked at you.

"I asked you once if you would be mine," he said softly. "Do you remember?"

"Of course," you smiled at the memory. "For the dance."

"Yes," he said. "Well, if you will have me," he retracted his hands from his pocket and produced an elegant golden ring with a small diamond. "Will you be mine?" he asked. "Forever?"

You couldn't decide where to look - Thomas' vulnerable and loving face, or the beautiful ring he presented. You finally chose his face as tears ran down your cheeks.

"Yes," you answered. "Of course, yes."

Thomas looked genuinely relieved and happy. He quickly slipped the ring onto your finger with ease. He stood at last and embraced you, letting his lips gently capture yours. The door opened just then and you sprang apart in surprise. Your father stood at the door smiling. You wiped the last tears from your cheeks and rolled your eyes at him.

"Eavesdropping?" you accused him. He merely shrugged and crossed the floor to you.

"I believe congratulations are in order?" he asked merrily, clasping his hand onto Thomas' shoulder.

"Yes, sir," Thomas agreed.

You looked at the two men with mock resentment at their plotting behind your back, but you could not hide the joy for long. In the back of your mind somewhere you remembered that this meant your father would help you publish your manuscript, but it was buried deep below the visions of your and Thomas' future together. Forever.


	9. The Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Thomas wed in a small ceremony and you make the move to England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's another short one, the next chapter will be longer, I promise! and finally we'll have some more ghosts and drama!

You bought a simple white dress for the ceremony at the town hall. It did not take much convincing for Thomas to agree to an intimate ceremony. This allowed you to  wed quickly, save money, and avoid the embarrassment of realizing you really had no one besides your father and Margaret to invite anyway.

The day of the wedding, the ring on your finger felt heavier than usual. Since the engagement, you'd been in a state of bliss. You romanticized your new life with Thomas in his sprawling mansion in the English countryside; you imagined your first night together as husband and wife and all the pleasures that would surely bring; and most of all, you were happy to have found someone to share your life with.

Now that the day had come, the realization of what was happening was so sudden. If you had told your past self that you would be getting married, you surely would have slapped your future self. The idea of belonging to another person, legally and emotionally had been worse than death. Yet, here you were, realizing that you were not binding yourself to Thomas as his property - you did not belong _to_ him, rather you belonged _with_ him, as his equal.

As promised, and just as icing on the cake, your father had spoken and most likely paid a small sum of money to the local publisher who now seemed more inclined to take your work more seriously and promised to publish it within the month. Noting your impending move to England, he promised to keep in touch if sales of this story were noteworthy.

You packed up your belongings that mostly consisted of clothes. Thomas had warned you of the cold of the countryside and how the mansion could be a bit drafty, so you had made sure to pack all of your winter coats and garments. The few mementos you did pack were mostly of your mother. You packed a necklace that had belonged to her, and several photos. You thought about the brief encounters you had had with your mother's ghost and shivered. Had you not been so confident in yourself, you would have thought them dreams. However, her warning of Crimson Peak was still very much at the forefront of your mind, although you still had yet to understand her warning. It would be difficult to say goodbye to your father, but in truth, he was barely around as it was and you felt you had already passed the feeling of abandonment.

Margaret was more difficult to say goodbye to, but you knew it would not be the last time you saw her. Surely you would come home at some point to visit all of them again after you got settled.

Thomas had booked passage for you and Lucille as well as himself on a passenger ship that left the night of your wedding. The voyage would take a few days. You had never been on a boat before so this was an exciting, yet slightly terrifying new adventure - just as the rest of your life would be. You didn't spend too much time worrying about the details of your arrival - all the things that would be different, how you might make friends and all that. What was important was being with Thomas. It almost scared you that the thought of having children _didn't_ scare you anymore.

You held on to Thomas' arm as you boarded the ship, Lucille trailing closely behind you. You didn't think many couples spent their wedding night aboard a ship and wondered if the usual activities ought to be put off for want of more privacy. Thomas had booked a separate room for Edith, and so you were hopeful for the evening, and yet when the night arrived, Thomas kissed you gently before getting into bed, turning out the light, and going right to sleep. That was fine, you told yourself, surely once you got to the mansion, you would consummate the marriage.

The days passed without much event. Your stomach grew accustomed to the lilting decks, the weather was calm enough for safe passage, and you spent a lot of time with Thomas. It seemed that every time you were alone in your room during the day, however, Lucille would appear and discourage any sort of ideas you had had about getting things started with Thomas. At night he would simply kiss you goodnight, discouraging any sort of sexual inclinations you might have had. You brushed it off as both nerves for the both of you, as well as the stress of travel.

You were relieved when the sea journey ended and you arrived at the port in England.

The crew helped you load your bags into a waiting carriage. You noted Thomas' possessive hold around your waist as the crewmen winked at you. Not that you wouldn't have been able to handle yourself with these men, but it did feel nice to have someone protecting you, not wanting to share you.

The carriage ride was exhausting and long. You spent most of it with your head on Thomas' shoulder, trying to ignore the icy stare that Lucille had decided to inflict with full force. Resigned to never understand her volatile feelings towards you, you attempted to sleep and were occasionally mildly successful. You were in one of these light slumbering states when Thomas gently shook you awake. You glanced up at him with heavy lids and saw him smiling down at you. Lucille was staring out the window now, and you followed her gaze. The carriage was arriving at the Sharpe estate.

"This is it, my love," Thomas said softly, pulling you closely to him. "This is Crimson Peak."


	10. A Night at Crimson Peak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get a tour of the house, and encounter a spirit.

_"This is it, my love. This is Crimson Peak."_

Your breath caught in your throat and the blood drained from your face. Lucille cocked her head at you, intrigued apparently, but you were too lost in the memory of your mother's warning to notice. Your fingers started to tremble but Thomas merely grinned at his home, not noticing you had gone stiff beside him.

 _Beware of Crimson Peak_ , your mother's ghost had warned you not once, but twice. There was some part of you that thought perhaps you would never see the day when Crimson Peak became a reality. Perhaps it was your writer's imagination that had conjured a prophecy you would never fulfill. But as the looming gates grew larger, and the giant house came into view, the reality sunk in. You were here, at the place where you were warned never to go. How were you to know that was the name of the estate? Thomas had never mentioned that name. What forces awaited you in that old house that were strong enough to wake your dead mother's spirit for a warning?

You tried to level your breathing and focus on what was immediately around you. Perhaps your mother's warning was not as severe as you had thought... But when you thought back to her pained ghostly face, you knew that was not true. You focused on Thomas' warm hands in yours, trying to find comfort there. You ignored Lucille's hard stare and tried to push the warning from your mind.

Pulling up to the large, wooden doors, the cab driver walked around to open your door. Thomas slipped him some money and he began unloading your luggage as Thomas' hand slipped around your waist and led you towards the house. It felt as though the house was breathing, creaking with each blow of the wind. The wooden doors stood at least twice your height, laced with iron decorations. The house itself was made of an old wood. You noticed some places where it rotted through to the foundation and grimaced. Some windows on the upper levels were broken or missing panes. The snow that covered the ground was sparse and revealed dead grass, but mostly red earth beneath it. When you stepped on the snow, you saw your footsteps looked like blood. The romanticized version of the house in your head was nowhere close. Thomas had said the house was not in great shape, but you did not expect this level of decay.

Noting your confusion over the redness of the ground, Thomas leaned in to explain.

"It's the clay. The red clay makes the ground look like this, hence the name 'Crimson Peak,'" he smiled warmly at you. Although you were feeling very out of your element, Thomas' smile did provide a sense of home.

Walking closer to the large doors, you noted at least ten black moths. Some of their wings had brown patterns on them, but for the most part they were black as night and still. One fluttered as Lucille crossed in front of you and placed a large key into the lock. She turned it with some difficulty and the door's lock clicked open. She returned the key ring to her side and pushed with most of her weight against the door. One of the moths fluttered and landed on her shoulder; she did not seem to notice.

Thomas led you into the house. The main foyer was large with a ceiling so high you would not have seen the top had it not been for the hole in the roof. A long staircase lay to your left and a balcony with a hallway followed it above. You stared up at the missing roof, again realizing the differences between your expectations and reality. Some snow from the room sifted in through the opening and landed on a square of floor beneath it when the wind blew. The patch of floor looked weathered and you did not trust it enough to stand on it.

Lucille walked confidently into the foyer and stood next to the patch. She turned abruptly and looked at you seriously.

"Do not go in the basement," she said with a quick flicker of her attention to Thomas. "It is not safe. The clay is mined down there and there's all sorts of Thomas' equipment. We wouldn't want our new bride to injure herself," she gave a sadistic smile, "Or worse."

You couldn't help but gulp at the shabbily-hidden joy she seemed to get at that thought. It seemed she was barely keeping up any pretense of liking you now that you had married Thomas. Fine then, you didn't have to pretend to like her either - except when Thomas was there, then you would suffer, for him.

"Thank you," you answered. Kill 'em with kindness.

"Lucille," Thomas said sweetly. "Would you mind cooking us some dinner while I show her around the house?"

Lucille gave him a hard look, but it softened.

"Alright," she said. She turned, the moth still on her shoulder, and disappeared around a corner down the hall.

You turned to Thomas, the realization hitting you that you were actually going to live in this decrepit house. He didn't appear to have any maids or butlers and you selfishly wished you had brought Margaret with you.

"I know it's not much," Thomas said, cupping your face in his hands. "But we can make it a home together." His eyes held so much hope you couldn't help but believe him. "And once my machine is ready, and we make some money, we can repair it and restore it to its former glory."

You tried for a genuine smile, hoping to mask your disappointment and fears.

"Of course," you assured him. "Home is where the heart is," you said, meaning it more than you thought you would.

"Come on," he said, motioning to the small bag you carried. "Let's bring that upstairs."

And so he led you up the creaking staircase with its crumbling railings and chipped boards. Along the hallway were several doors. Thomas led you to the first one on the right and you were thankful not to have to walk down the creepy length. Thomas turned the knob slowly and opened the door to a bedroom. The canopy bed was the main center of the room with its white sheets just a shade darker than perhaps they had originally been. The curtains hung heavy over the windows letting almost no light in. Thomas lit a candle and found several others around the room to light, at least adding some level of comfort and visibility to the room. There were two dressers and a full length mirror lining one side of the room. A walk in closet lay on the other. All in all it was a good amount of space, but everything looked like it was part of a long-forgotten museum.

You forced a smile at Thomas.

"It's beautiful," you said, entering the room. You blushed as you looked at the bed.

"We can get a desk for your writing," Thomas assured you.

You laid your bag on the bed and sighed. You felt his arms warp around you from behind and he stood there, just holding you, letting you adjust.

"You will be happy here, I promise," he sounded desperate for you to believe him.

"I already am," you only partially lied. You were happy to be anywhere Thomas was. That the circumstances of your station were less than desirable was a minor detail. You felt Thomas relax behind you. Apparently your statement had been enough to sooth his worries. You let your hand fall onto the bed. "This looks comfortable," you said in a light teasing tone. "We will have to test it out later," you blushed at your own boldness.

Thomas moved away from you with a tight smile.

"Shall I show you the rest of the house?" he asked.

The small rejection was a little painful. You thought after all the passion you had expressed during your courtship, surely he would be more than ready to go all the way as soon as you were wed. His hesitation was mysterious and slightly insulting. Perhaps he was simply not one for such talk, you reasoned.

Making your way through the house proved less horrible than you would have guessed. Most of the rest of the house was similar to the style of your bedroom. The furniture and accessories were old but elegant. There was rot and degradation here and there, but for the most part it was decent.

The library was by far your favorite part. Thomas led you among the two floor expanse of shelves and you nearly squealed with delight. Thomas found great joy in your reaction and even pulled you in for a kiss that made your head spin. You ran your fingers along the spines of the older books and noted the comfortable-looking armchair that lay beside the fireplace. You could definitely lose yourself in here.

Thomas nearly had to drag you away to the kitchen, but when he did, you found Lucille had finished making dinner. It looked like a plain plate of pasta with some hard-looking bread. The kitchen itself was nothing too impressive. The out of date appliances were rusting in spots and the ingredients did not look fresh at all.

You forced a smile at Lucille, but her attention was focused on Thomas.

"Shall we?" Thomas asked the two of you.

You brought your meals into the small dining room. Dinner was mostly silent with only small conversation made about the journey and the weather. Mostly you were just thinking about getting Thomas alone this evening. You had your concerns about pain of course, but more than anything you wanted Thomas. You wanted to feel what it was like to have him inside of you, filling you up, drowning your senses.

You chewed the hard pasta as best you could and tried to stomach the rock hard bread. The wine helped the food go down at least, and gave you warm feelings in your stomach.

When everyone was finished, Thomas bade Lucille goodnight with a kiss to the forehead. It almost looked as though she leaned in when he pulled away to grab his hand, but he either ignored it or did not notice, as his attention was now on you.

"Goodnight, Lucille," you offered as Thomas grasped your hand in his.

"Sleep tight," Lucille responded with false kindness.

Thomas again led you upstairs and into your bedroom. He closed the door behind him as you walked over to the bed. He stayed by the door for a moment, staring at his feet. You were about to speak - to offer some kind of encouragement for what you wanted, but he spoke first.

"I am going to take a bath," he said, not meeting your eyes. "If you are asleep when I return, I will understand."

You tried not to gape at this blatant avoidance. Thomas did not meet your eyes before slipping out the door he had just entered. You heard the door to the bathroom open and shut, followed by flowing of water.

You stood by the bed where he had left you. You were sure that tonight would be the night you would finally come together. Perhaps he was still tired from travel, you reasoned. You weren't feeling your best ether, you noted, now that you were left alone. In your bag you found your new nightgown and put it on, slipping into the cold bed alone. Was Thomas hesitant because he did not want you in the same way? Was he nervous as you were? Your mind raced until it didn't. Sleep found you despite the trepidation and worries that plagued you.

When you woke soon after, it was because of movement in the bed. You turned, realizing that at some point Thomas had returned, changed, and slipped into bed without waking you. It could not have been long because you still felt very tired. You tried your best to go back to sleep but your mind would have none of that.

Resigned to insomnia, you got up and out of bed, dawning slippers to keep your feet warm against the cold floors. Perhaps some water would help, you thought.

Stepping lightly so as to avoid any creaking that might wake Thomas, you slipped out of your room and into the dark hallway with a candle. Shivers ran down your spine as you looked down the gloomy hallway. The window at the end of it provided only a small amount of starlight as there was no moon. You crept down the hall, trying to remember which door led to the bathroom. Then your flesh went cold. You stood still, trying to decipher what had made you flinch. The floor a few feet beyond you seemed to darken. Smoke started to creep out of the carpet, although it looked more solid, like some kind of goo. You startled backwards, but forced yourself to look. Perhaps it was some kind of emergency and you wanted to see what it was and if you should do anything about it.

When you saw a hand come up out of the carpet, you gave a silent scream. Nothing came from the horror that bundled up inside you and made its way to your throat. You were strangled in fear as a dark mass of a body crawled up out of the floorboards. Creaking and snapping sounds flooded your ears as the womanly figure fully dislodged itself from the floor. Your grip on your candle tightened and you tried not to drop it. The sallow face looked at you and for some reason, calmed you a little. Although it was not your mother, it was similar. The face had no expression, but it was not threatening. The body was creeping towards you, moaning and groaning as if in pain, but its actions did not speak of malice to you. In your gut, although you wanted to run, you thought you had better not. The way the creature moved reminded you of a boy you once knew in school who had run all the way from his home four miles away to inform the police of a robbery he had witnessed. Being in the area, you had seen the way he moved, the way he would not let anything get in the way of doing what he thought was right. This figure moved in a similar way, focused on doing something, to tell you something.

You focused on your breathing, watching the ghost carefully. Now that some of the smoke-like substance had cleared, you could see her more clearly. She seemed to be wearing a tattered dress and a veil.

"What do you want?" you asked unsteadily. Your voice carried down the hallway, but you doubted it would be loud enough for anyone to hear but her.

"R-run," the thing croaked, slipping back into the floorboard. She looked as though she were truly struggling and for a moment, part of you considered trying to help her. But before you could try and move your heavy feet, she disappeared with another moan, leaving you alone in the hallway with only your candle.

It took a long time before your breath evened out and you to tear your eyes away from the spot. Forgetting the bathroom, you decided to turn back and wake Thomas to tell him what you had seen. When you could finally move, it felt like you'd been asleep for years. Your limbs took a while to respond, but finally you made it back to your room, not caring about the noise you made. The door closing made Thomas shift. You crawled into bed and sat beside him. Grabbing his shoulder, you shook him gently.

"What's wrong?" he mumbled, not opening his eyes.

"Thomas," you whispered, suddenly scared to tell him. "I saw something."

He opened his eyes to look quizzically at you.

"A ghost," you said. "I saw a woman in the hallway."

"A ghost?" he smiled wanly. "You were dreaming."

He turned onto his side to face you. He seemed to be amused by this, but there was also a hint of something else - fear? It was hard to tell in the dark room.

"No," you assured him. "I know what I saw. It's happened to me before, I--"

"Shhh," he quieted you. His hand caressed your shoulder. "Come on, it was just a dream. Come lay down with me. Sleep."

Convinced that you would have to wait until morning to explain this to him, you laid down, letting him press himself against your back and wrap his arm around you. You blew out the candle and let the darkness surround you again. In his embrace you found it harder to feel afraid or worried about your encounter. Thomas stroked light patterns on your arm and kissed your neck. You sighed into him, forgetting for a moment the insanity of what had just happened on your first night at Crimson Peak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk if I'm the only one who read the movie as interestingly feminist, but that's what I'm sticking to here: women helping women. The ghosts in the movie mostly serve to warn Edith of the fate they faced. They lead her to discover clues that save her life and I thought that was really cool. So that's going to be kind of a driving force behind the ghosts in this tale. They're going to be kinda scary, but also have good intentions in the end.


	11. All of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have a conversation with Lucille, then later you and Thomas finally make love.

You startled awake as if reminded of the encounter you had had the previous evening. You could feel the absence of Thomas from the room before you even opened your eyes. The bed was cooler without his heat to help warm it, and you could simply sense that he was nowhere near you.

The note on his pillow did surprise you, however, You rolled over and saw his beautiful handwriting explaining that he had gone into town to look for parts for his clay mining machine and he wouldn't be back until the evening. Your heart sank. You were sure he was not avoiding you on purpose - his work was important to him and you respected that. You still had a hard time understanding what it was about your relationship that had changed since your marriage. Did he not long for you in the same way? Had you done something to displease him? You sighed, resigned to figure it out tonight when he returned. Equally as pressing was the importance of persuading him you had seen a ghost. It was not your first encounter, and you had a strange feeling it would not be your last. But how could you possibly convince him?

All this worrying in circles was getting you nothing but an upset stomach. You rolled out of bed and opened the heavy curtains. Temporarily blinded, you looked away as the light crashed in from the window. It was still pretty early in the morning from the looks of it. Adjusting to the light, you found that a fresh layer of snow had covered the ground overnight. Red tracks leading from the house showed you that Thomas had indeed left the house.

You found a heavy dressing gown in the closet and wrapped it around you. The embroidered letters on the breast pocket read TS and from the length of it, you could only surmise it was your husband's gown. You breathed in the scent of him and closed your eyes, imagining he was wrapping himself around you. Slipping on shoes, you made your way down the hallway, careful to avoid looking at the spot where the incident had occurred. It was too soon and far too early to try and rationalize that.

The house was freezing and you hugged the dressing gown tighter around you. You could almost see your breath as you exhaled. The stairs creaked when you descended, as if moaning in protest at your presence. A larger pile of snow lay in the middle of the foyer where the roof was missing. You sidestepped it and headed towards the kitchen for something to eat. Based on Lucille's dinner last night, you assumed a plain bowl of porridge or something of the like was in order.

You nearly yelped when you saw a shape moving out of the corner of your eye, but when you turned to see it, you found it was only Lucille in a long, black dress, leaning over to pull something out of the oven. Hearing your sharp intake of air, she turned around, eyeing you carefully. It felt as if she were scanning your body for weaknesses or signs of criminal activity. You shifted uncomfortably for a moment before trying your best to smile at her.

"Good morning," you tried.

"Is it?" she replied dryly.

"I hope so," you responded, taking a seat at the table in the kitchen. You feared getting in the way of Lucille and so resigned yourself to wait until she was done with whatever she was doing to begin making breakfast.

"Thomas left early," she noted. "I take it it wasn't a late night then?"

Her words held far more innuendo than you would have deemed appropriate for your relationship. What business was it of hers how late you stayed up with Thomas and for what reason. You cleared your throat, trying to sound as casual as she had.

"No, it wasn't," you answered. She looked almost... relieved.

"Tea?" she asked, reaching over to take the kettle off the fire.

"Yes please."

Lucille poured your tea, but none for herself. She presented it to you with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. There was something about her, you noticed. Something... desperate, feral almost. She contained it well, but it was there right below the surface. Your hand shook minutely as you took the tea and pressed the cool china to your lips. The liquid was bitter and heavy and you almost coughed as if you had drank scotch for the first time instead of tea. You swallowed a tiny sip and forced a smile.

"It's lovely," you lied. She nodded with a neutral expression.

Lucille busied herself with what looked like dinner preparations. She was cutting meat and vegetables and throwing them into a pot, presumably to slow cook until the time came to eat them.

"Have you always cooked for Thomas?" you asked, suddenly wondering about their childhood as orphans.

She turned to you, surprised, as if she had forgotten you were there.

"Yes," she said. "I have always taken care of Thomas. Always."

The fierceness in her voice almost made you like her. The way she cared for Thomas was admirable, certainly. Especially in the case of their tragic story.

"That must be nice," you mused. "Being so close with your sibling. I never had any."

She had a faraway look in her eyes now.

"It was nice -- it is," she corrected herself angrily. "When our parents died, we only had each other. For years and years we were each others entire worlds." She smiled to herself, a private smile that you were not supposed to see.

Forgetting for a moment, you lifted the cup again and tasted the tea. You cringed and she saw it.

"Do you not like it?" she asked, challenging you.

"It's a little bitter," you answered with a meek smile.

"There has never been anything sweet in this house," she mused. "Until you."

There was no doubt in your mind that she did not see that as a good thing. You pursed your lips together, choosing to ignore it rather than start something. When she wasn't looking, you dumped the tea into a nearby dead plant.

There was a long silence filled only by Lucille's occasional chopping of ingredients.

"He's sensitive," she said suddenly, pulling you out of the trance you had fallen into.

"What?" you asked.

"Thomas," she answered. She continued chopping up potatoes. "Ever since he was little he has always been sensitive. Every," _chop_ , "Little," _chop_ "Thing." She wiped the potatoes to the side of the board. "I have protected him from everything, alone," she said, suddenly seeming much older to you. She turned around, leaning her back against the counter, still holding the knife. It unsettled you that even though she had full right to be holding the instrument, she still seemed far more threatening than she should have. "He was mine for a long time."

"Well, now you don't have to protect him alone," you offered. "I'm here now."

Her eyes glazed over in what you could only describe as a day dreaming expression until she forced a smile that contrasted with her hard eyes.

"Yes," she said curtly. "So you are."

Hoping to have alleviated some of the responsibility Lucille had been feeling for Thomas her whole life, you were surprised to feel even more animosity flowing from her since your offer to help take care of him. It was as if she wanted to own him, control him, and keep him away from you. Obviously this was impossible. You were married now, she would simply have to adapt. It occurred to you that perhaps Thomas was dealing with a similar issue. Perhaps he had the same trouble adapting to having someone new care for him in a home where he had only known the love of his sister. Such a small world had suddenly expanded twofold. It was no wonder Thomas was having difficulties. You felt a little lighter despite the occasional glaring glances Lucille threw you.

It seemed she would be in the kitchen for a while and you did not wish to further your conversation any longer. Eyeing some fruit in a basket near the door, you stood and examined it. The apples seemed bruised, but for the most part edible. You grabbed one and bid Lucille goodbye for the moment. Wandering down the mansion's halls, you found the grand library. Tossing the apple in your hand, you walked among the shelves until something caught your eye. You grabbed the book and headed to the chair near the fireplace. The armchair was large and looked ancient. However, sitting upon it, the stuffing was still comfortable and you slid into it easily after quickly lighting a fire.

You sampled the apple you had taken. It was definitely not sweet, as Lucille had warned you, but neither was it as bitter as the tea. You ate it while you perused the book you had grabbed. The light changed in the library as the sun moved across the sky, making different shadows from the window panes move across the floor. You read for a good portion of the day. Hunger and loneliness were delayed by the riveting tale you were reading.

Suddenly you felt a slight pressure on your head. Looking up, you saw Thomas smiling down at you, having just kissed the top of your head. His face was smudged with a bit of red clay, which you almost mistook for blood. His blue eyes were sparkling as he leaned against the chair and let his fingers run through your hair.

"What are you reading, love?" he asked quietly. His voice was barely above the crackle of the dying fire. He looked tired but happy.

You showed him the title of the book and he smiled.

"A good one," he said. You nodded.

"Come here," you motioned beside you. Thomas looked worried for a moment, but it soon faded and he walked around in front of you. You stood for a moment so Thomas could slide into the armchair, and then you draped yourself across his lap, leaning your head against his chest, clutching the book to you. "I missed you," you said softly, childishly.

Thomas kissed your temple and wrapped his arms around you. As unsafe as you had felt in the hallway last night, and in the kitchen this morning, this nearly eliminated all that. You did not feel caged or trapped in Thomas' embrace. You felt protected. The steady beat of his heart beneath you, his strong arm around you, it was home, even if this place wasn't yet.

"I missed you too," he said.

You were quiet for a long time before you gathered the courage to look up at him. His face was calm, and he watched you with interest. You leaned up, wrapped your hand around the back of his neck, and pulled him in for a kiss. At first it was tentative, like a question. Thomas answered you in kind and moved his lips against yours in a steady, passionate drive. You laced your fingers through hair and tugged lightly. In response he deepened the kiss and pulled you tighter into his arms. The coolness you had originally felt from his being outside had vanished, replaced with the heat between the two of you. You moved to adjust yourself to get more of him, pulling away slightly when you heard a cough from above you.

Your cheeks flushed as you pulled away fully and glanced over at Lucille. Thomas turned to his sister as well. While perhaps she should have shown some embarrassment on walking in on the two of you like this, she simply looked annoyed, angry even. She seemed not to move at all for a few moments, as though she were frozen with that hateful expression seared on her face forever.

Finally, she broke with only one word: "Dinner." With that, she swiftly turned around and stalked out the door as if it had been the two of you who had insulted her character or personally injured her, rather than simply engaging in a romantic embrace. You sighed, ready to get up and face her again, but Thomas did not loosen his hold on you.

"My love," he said softly, nuzzling against you.

"Yes?" you answered. He sighed deeply and opened his mouth as if to say something, but stopped himself.

"I love you," he said instead.

"And I, you," you replied, kissing him.

With no small amount of displeasure, you finally got up and stood, offering Thomas your hand. He took it, although he did not need the assistance. His eyes traveled down your body, noting your dressing gown - or rather, his dressing gown.

"Sorry," you smiled. "I was cold and... and it smelled like you." Thomas wrapped his arm around you and kissed the top of your head.

"You look ravishing," he replied.

"Perhaps I should change for dinner?" you asked. "I didn't realize I was reading all day."

"There is no need," Thomas assured you. "This is your house now. You may do what you please."

You smiled, remembering how the last time you had stayed in your pajamas all day had been when you were very little, when your mother was still alive.

You and Thomas made your way to the dining room slowly, stealing glances at each other and giggling like school children. Lucille was seated at the head of the table, having laid out three place settings. It appeared that the meal was to be some sort of meat with a side of potatoes. Wine had been poured as well and you were looking forward to a little buzz to both get you through your time with Lucille and loosen Thomas up for the evening.

You did not miss Lucille's hateful glare at Thomas as he pulled your chair out for you. You turned away before she could catch you staring. Why was it she seemed to adore him most of the time and hate him whenever he did something nice for you? Jealousy perhaps? You could understand how the dynamic had changed, but not so much that she should shoot daggers at him. If she truly love him, she would be happy for him. You focused on your plate, examining the dinner, while Thomas took his seat beside you.

"It looks great, Lucille," you offered.

"It does," Thomas agreed, smiling at your compliment.

"Thank you," Lucille said tiredly.

You began to eat in silence as had become the way. Every once and a while you would feel Thomas' hand on your thigh, squeezing lightly, just to make you blush. The silence began to feel uncomfortable so you asked Thomas about his day. This turned into a normal conversation of which Lucille did not try to enter. You had almost forgotten she was there you were so wrapped up in conversation with Thomas, that she startled you when she stood and announced she was going to bed.

"Are you not feeling well, sister?" Thomas asked, genuinely concerned. She looked at him dryly.

"I'm fine," she answered. Giving no other explanation, she left the room, leaving you and Thomas alone with your nearly finished dinners.

Eating slowly, you both finished within minutes. Thomas collected your plates and you followed him to the kitchen where he placed them in the sink and began washing them. You grabbed a towel and assisted in drying what was washed. It was beautifully domestic. There was no need for words. You silently washed and dried until you were done.

Thomas grabbed your hand and led you upstairs, towards your room. You involuntarily balked upon seeing the hallway, forgetting to avoid the spot. Thomas looked concerned, but you reassured him it was nothing for the time being. If you were being honest, you were avoiding the conversation for two reasons: one, because he most likely would try and convince you that it was a dream, and two, because he seemed more open to you than ever and you wanted to see if tonight was the night you would finally come together.

Walking into the darkening room, Thomas lit a few candles and placed them around the room while you hung his dressing gown up. While your back was turned to him, he walked up behind you and wrapped his arms around you.

"Was it terribly boring today, my love?" he asked, resting his chin on your forehead.

"No," you answered. "I talked a little with Lucille and read most of the day. She cares for you deeply," you noted, turning to face him.

"Mmm," he agreed. "We were all we had for a long time," he said sadly.

You lowered your eyes, afraid to say what you had speculated earlier.

"What is it?" he asked. You slid your arms around his neck but did not look up.

"I just... I know that you two were very close for a long time, and that kind of bond isn't something that just goes away. I know that I'm new and it will take time for us to grow closer, but I just... Thomas, why haven't we been... together yet?" you blushed.

You felt his finger under your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his.

"Loving you is unlike _anything_ I have ever experienced," Thomas said passionately. "I have had Lucille my whole life... but I have never had anything like this... So... passionate, so exciting... It scares me," he admitted a bit sheepishly. "You scare me," he almost chuckled.

"Me?" you laughed.

He nodded.

"I have never had something so... real... Something that mattered so much. I guess I was afraid that if I let myself have you... all of you... Perhaps it might somehow disappear, like waking up early from a good dream."

You nearly melted into his arms.

"I'm not going anywhere," you explained, pulling him in for a kiss.

His arms wrapped tightly around you and held you fast to him. Pushing slightly, you drove him backwards towards the bed. He turned you so your knees were to the back of the bed and you slid onto it, never breaking the kiss. He followed you gracefully, hovering above you as you laid down on the soft blankets. Only then did his lips pull away so he could look at you. The candlelight flickered across his features, illuminating the perfect curve of his lips, the fine angle of his jaw, the fire in his eyes.

You watch him as he shed his vest. He then pulled his shirt over his head and you watched his stomach muscles stretch and move as he moved. He was simply beautiful. Once he was rid of his shirt, he returned his mouth to yours as hungrily as a starving man to bread. Your head spun with the sensation of his soft lips on yours and your hands skimmed over his newly exposed skin, feeling all the muscled move as he began to grind against you. All you could think was that there was too much clothing between you. Your hands flew down to his trousers and undid the buttons clumsily. You broke the kiss with your laughter when you could not get the last one. Thomas grinned and rid himself of the intrusive fabric carelessly, exposing himself fulling to you.

He was beautiful, better than the Vitruvian man. He was poised above you, allowing you to take him all in while he assessed the clothing still adorning your body. You sat up and wriggled so your nightgown would easily slip over your head. Gone were any trepidation or self conscious thoughts as you allowed Thomas to see all of you. The way he looked at you told you that you were perfect. He did not need to say anything, you knew he wanted you as badly as you wanted him. You could feel yourself growing warmer and more aroused by the moment simply by the way he gazed at you.

When you were both fully nude, he brought his lips to yours yet again, pushing you back down onto the bed. He laid his body on top of yours, supporting most of his weight with his arms, but allowing your bodies the most contact possibly. He ground his hips against yours, and you felt his arousal pressing on your most sensitive spot. Your fingers tangled in his hair as his tongue begged entrance to your mouth. You obliged and he deepened the kiss. You thought you would be happy to do this forever. Then his lips left your mouth and you nearly whined at the absence until you felt his lips on your neck. He nipped and sucked at your skin while you gently mewled beneath him. Your sounds made him growl in response as he made his way down your neck and past your collarbone.

His right hand caressed your breast as his mouth closed around your other nipple. You encouraged him with enraptured noises and bit your lower lip. Again you felt as though this were the best thing. He moved to your other breast and gave that nipple the same attention. Your head was swimming with sensations you had never felt before.

Once again you were disappointed when this attention stopped, but not for long. His lips trailed kisses lower and lower and you watched as he gently parted your knees. He smiled from between them, looking up at you with excitement. You blushed, but thought that Thomas right there, between your legs, was your favorite way to see him.

You threw your head back when he brought his lips and tongue to your folds, choking on all of the sounds that wanted to escape your lips. One hand fisted in his hair while the other held onto the sheet for dear life as he delved into you. His tongue began to swirl maddening patterns and you felt the tension quickly building with each swirl of his graceful tongue. You arched your hips up involuntarily to get more of him. You glanced down at him quickly, trying to convey with your eyes how much you needed him to keep going. He looked up, keeping his mouth on you, and the fire in his eyes, the pleasure, sent you over the edge. He sucked and swirled until you rode out your orgasm, trying your hardest not to scream out, and instead gasping his name over and over along with other obscenities until you had come down from your high.

When Thomas' mouth left you, he licked his lips and smiled. The fire was still there, he still wanted you, and you him. You lay partially numb, but at the same time hypersensitive beneath him, just waiting for what he would do next. You noticed his arousal had been fully awakened and bit your lip, wondering how such a length could possibly fit inside you. He gently grabbed your knees and wrapped them around his hips, lining himself up at your entrance.

"Are you ready?" he asked in a low tone.

You nodded, unsure as to whether or not you could speak coherently right now. He smiled gently and suddenly you saw not only the fire, but the love that he felt for you. When he saw you nod, He leaned over you and gently slid in slowly.

You gasped, feeling the first pangs of pain. You gritted your teeth and kept nodding as he pushed all the way inside you. He did not move for a moment, and you realized you had closed your eyes.

"Darling," you heard him say. You opened your eyes to Thomas' worried face.

"I'm fine," you promised. As you said so, the pain lessened and your body adjusted to Thomas' size and length. Thomas looked dubiously at you. "I am," you smiled. You moved your hands to his shoulders and kissed him.

Thomas must have believed you because he began to pull out slowly, pushing back in when he was almost all the way out. Again there was a small amount of pain, but this time it was accompanied by pleasure. Thomas began moving in and out of you, slowly, watching your face for discomfort. When you began to loosen up, you found yourself enjoying his gentle thrusts more, wanting them to come even faster as you felt your stomach tightening in the same way it had moments before.

You kissed him hungrily and moved your hands down the length of his back. Your hands moved to clutch his ass, pushing him into you faster. He bit lightly on your lower lip in response and quickened his pace. Your breathing quickened as well and you felt his arms start to shake on either side of you. He broke the kiss and you felt him come inside you. He exhaled your name and you found your second orgasm coming quickly after that. Your nails dug into his back as you rode it out, Thomas still thrusting blindly into you while he came. You sighed as you came down from yet another high and watched Thomas' face resume his easy smile. He stayed there for a moment before kissing you and slipping out of you. He rolled to the side of you and laid on his back, raising his arm up for you to snuggle in, resting your head on his chest, feeling his skin beneath you.

"That was..." you trailed off, unable to aptly put it into words. A first for you.

"Yeah," Thomas agreed anyway, chuckling.

"I love you, Thomas," you said, perhaps more seriously than the moment called for. For some reason you found it more true than ever before. You loved him with all your heart.

"And I, you," he responded, kissing the top of your head.

Gone were the thoughts of ghosts and hateful sisters; gone were any worries about your marriage. You had confirmed what you had always known, you and Thomas were solid, unbreakable. You and he were one.


	12. The Music Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spirit wants to lead you to the basement, but before you can get there, Thomas surprises you with a romantic gift.

You woke slowly, realizing with a smile that Thomas was still wrapped around you. It was surprising how warm you felt without any clothes. Under the heavy blankets and sheets, Thomas spooned you tightly, molding your body to his so perfectly, it was as if you had been originally cut from him. Your waking movements caused him to take a deep breath and pull you tighter to him. He buried his face in your hair.

You blushed to yourself, remembering the night's events. The soreness between your legs did not surprise you, nor did it feel burdensome. It was a welcome reminder of the moment you had shared with Thomas. The encounter with the veiled spirit was not far from your mind either, spoiling the otherwise perfect morning. It was so bleak here, you reasoned, why not put off the horrible things for now and focus on the one nugget of happiness you had managed to find. There would be time later to persuade Thomas. Time when he was less naked, and you were less comfortable.

You heard mumbling and felt the vibrations on your neck. Giggling, you turned your head slightly towards Thomas.

"What was that?" you asked, chuckling.

"I said you did not fade away," Thomas repeated with his eyes still closed, smiling. "You're still here." Finally he opened his eyes and gazed at you. Turning around to view him better, you realized just how relieved he really looked - as if his remark the previous evening had been true.

"I told you, I am not going anywhere," you repeated firmly.

Taking his face in your hands, you gently pulled him in for a kiss. It was soft and delicate, much like the morning light that snuck through the curtains. Any mood you might have wanted to create was disrupted by the loud sound your stomach made then. Giggling, you looked down.

"Hungry?" Thomas asked.

"Maybe a little," you admitted. "It was a pretty taxing evening," you smirked.

Thomas bit his lower lip and smiled.

"Well, endurance is built up over time, with much, _much_ practice," he teased.

He sat up quickly and stood, opening the curtains slightly and letting the morning light spill in. The light illuminated him, revealing every curve that the darkness had hidden. There were some moments when you were sure he belonged there in the sunlight, rather than hidden away in this dark mansion. Perhaps you could help him in this way - coax him out into the sun where he belonged. Anyone gazing at his glistening body in the bright rays would have agreed with you. It felt intrusive to stare, but you could not help it. He walked over to the closet and pulled out a dressing gown similar to the one you had stolen the night before. He draped it around himself carefully, covering himself completely, at which you frowned.

You followed suit, shivering at the temperature difference outside the bed. You slipped your nightgown on and Thomas held out the dressing gown you had stolen. You slid the gown on and felt quite a bit warmer. Finding slippers, you were sufficiently dressed to brace the cold of the mansion. Thomas led the way downstairs. You walked hand in hand into the kitchen.

Once again Lucille was up before you and dressed. You wondered if she dressed every day. So far you had spent your days in the mansion in a night gown. With no company, who was there to impress? Perhaps she simply liked a routine, you reasoned. She turned to the two of you with an indifferent expression. You noticed her eyes dip to your entwined hands and she scowled.

Placing the tea tray she had been holding onto the table a little more violently than you had expected, she took a seat at the table and stared at you.

"Good morning, sister," Thomas greeted her. He let go of your hand to cross the room and kiss his sister's cheek. She smiled and seemed to melt into the embrace. He pulled away quickly to return to your side, slipping his hand back into yours as though he could not breath without your touch.

Once Thomas had left her side, Lucille's smile faded.

"I have made you some tea," Lucille said, glancing at you when she spoke. "Here," she offered you a cup.

"Would you like some?" you asked Thomas, taking the tea from Lucille. You dreaded drinking it, but refusing her would mean adding gas to the fire.

"Thomas wouldn't like this tea," Lucille cut in quickly. "He prefers sweeter tea, and we are out."

Thomas shrugged and made his way over to the pantry. Lucille watched you carefully as you held the cup in your hands as if she were afraid you might drop it. You took a tentative sip. It was even worse than you remembered.

"It's full of herbs and nutrients," Lucille assured you. "To help against the cold," she added.

"Thank you, Lucille. That's very kind of you to think of my well-being," you tried to sound friendly. Taking another sip, you had to force yourself to swallow. You knew she would not stop watching you until you drank all the tea. It seemed to be some kind of test of friendship to her or something. You figured it was best just to get it over with and downed all of it at once.

Thomas had prepared some fruit and oatmeal for you. He pulled up a chair and joined the two of you at the kitchen table.

"Have you gotten any mail for me?" you asked Lucille, suddenly remembering. "I was wondering if my father had heard any word from the publishers."

"No," Lucille answered, uninterested.

"We could check the post office," Thomas suggested with a smile. "They don't always deliver here quite as often as they should; us being quite a ways a way and all. They like to save up until it's worth their trip." He gave you an apologetic smile.

"That would be nice, thank you," you reached out to touch his hand.

Lucille abruptly stood and snatched your teacup away from you, taking the tray back to the counter. It startled you, but you calmed yourself down soon enough.

"What are you going to do today?" Thomas asked you. "I have to work on my machine again, I'm afraid. I'm so close to a break through."

"I'm sure you'll get there," you said. "And I think I want to go back and finish the book I started yesterday. Maybe even start writing a little."

Thomas' eyes glowed with happiness.

"I would love to read more of your stories," he smiled. "Have I ever shown you her work, Lucille?" Thomas asked. Lucille gave a forced smile.

"No, I don't think you have," was all she said. She then left the room quickly without so much as another word. You watched her go, thinking you would never understand what made that woman tick.

After a moment of readjustment, Thomas turned to you.

"I must go now, my love. But I will be back in time for dinner, I am sure."

He kissed you quickly and you sighed as he left, wishing that you could simply spend all day with him. You would never rid him of his passions though, and so were content to spend the day in the library.

During your walk there, you started to feel severe stomach cramps. At first you thought it might be your time of the month, but this felt different - higher and more painful than usual. You tried to even your breath and found the chair you had been in yesterday. Sinking down, the pain lessened some. You felt your stomach tenderly, wondering what had brought on such sudden pains. You wished you had some water, but the thought of getting up again so soon and making the pain worse made you stay. Hopefully it would pass. Until then there was nothing much to do but try not to focus on it.

You picked up the book you had been reading and focused on the story. You were about three quarters of the way through it. Already the pain was fading away, masked by the great storytelling of the author. It did not take you long to finish the book. You smiled, having enjoyed the ending, and put it down. You were planning on digesting the book, considering and noting all the nuances to talk to Thomas about later, when your left hand suddenly went cold. It was as if someone had dumped it in a bucket of ice water. You clutched it to you, frightened at the sudden change. When you snatched it away, it warmed up. You convinced yourself it had been nothing and returned it to the armrest. Again you felt cool chills on your hand, and suddenly a slight pulling.

Evening your breath, you stood. Perhaps this was the same spirit in the hallway, trying to show you something, leading you by the hand. Although you should have been worried, concerned that the spirit had sinister intentions, you weren't. The spirit in the hallway had not scared you, and neither did this. It felt as though it was going to lead you to a discovery.

"What do you want to show me?" you asked the air around you. You tried not to feel foolish talking to the air.

The pull on your arm led you towards the door of the library. You grabbed a candle and followed, unsure where it would lead you in this dark house. The grip on your hand did not feel like someone tugging you along, it felt like a cool, friendly hand, leading you. Perhaps friendly was an overstatement, but it was gentle enough, and you followed. You wondered if the writer in you that loved mysteries was about to lead you to your death. Even if that were the case, you weren't sure you could resist.

Checking the hallway for signs of Lucille, and seeing none, you proceeded down the main hallway. The tugging on your hand became slightly more insistent as you neared the end of the hallway. The hold your hand seemed to tighten and grow colder. Suddenly you worried about your decision. Perhaps this was not wise or fun at all. You tried to pull your hand back, mumbling something about it hurting you, but the grip only became more insistent. It pulled you to the end of the hallway, basically dragging you at this point. You thought about screaming for help but did not think Lucille would hear you, and Thomas was gone working on his machine somewhere on the grounds. You tugged at the invisible force, but to no avail. Your feet nearly dragged on the carpet as your heart raced in your chest. You were pulling so hard, so focused on getting away from the grasp, that you almost didn't realize it had stopped pulling you. It stayed now, loosening its grip once again. You looked in front of you, realizing you were standing in front of an elevator shaft. The metal bars looked ancient and rusty. You were not sure if it should be transporting anything.

A memory surfaced from your first day here. Lucille had warned you about the basement and how dangerous it was. You had already been upstairs, and it didn't look as though the elevator went anywhere but down. Why would the spirit try and lead you somewhere dangerous? Perhaps its intentions were to harm you?

As if reading your thoughts, or perhaps your confused face, the grip tugged downward lightly, clearly indicating what it wanted you to do.

"I--I can't," you mumbled excuses. "It's dangerous."

You nearly jumped out of your skin when the elevator started to rumble. It shook and creaked so loudly, it hurt your ears. You stepped back, noting the disappearance of the grasp on your wrist. You watched as the lift opened and Thomas appeared. Again, his clothing was almost soaked with the red clay, making it appear as though he had just gone through a gruesome battle. You clutched your hands to your chest and breathed, evening your heart rate once again.

"Are you alright?" Thomas asked, stepping quickly out of the lift to step towards you.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

"You're shaking," he noted. He glanced around the hall and then back at you. "What are you doing down here?" he asked.

Dare you tell him the truth? You were definitely not sleep walking this time. You wanted desperately to tell him of your experience, but you feared that he would not believe you. You thought of the closeness the two of you had had recently, and you did not want to ruin that. Besides, you didn't have any proof. For all you knew, your overactive imagination was throwing illusions at you. You hadn't been writing lately, perhaps it wanted some exercise. That's what you told yourself as Thomas wrapped his arms around you. For the moments that he held you, you could forget that a desperate spirit wanted you to be where Thomas had just come from.

Thomas held you against him, silent, until you had stopped shaking and calmed down.

"What were you doing down here?" he repeated, pulling away to look at you. It sounded accusatory, but there was genuine concern on his features. Perhaps he thought you had forgotten Lucille's warning and had planned to go downstairs.

"The lift startled me," was all you could manage. "I heard the sound and I thought something was wrong." You hoped your lie was convincing. Thomas' relaxed shoulder and small smile assured you it was. You felt awful, but you would tell him the truth eventually.

"It's nothing," he assured you. "It is just very old. Like everything else in this house." Suddenly his features lit up and he dawned an enormous grin. "I have something to show you," he smiled.

"What?" you asked, excited by his sudden enthusiasm.

"A surprise," he teased. "Upstairs."

A surprise? When would he have had time to surprise you. Perhaps he wasn't spending all his time on his machine and had taken time to do something for you. Taking a break from your passion wasn't easy, you appreciated it already, whatever it was.

Thomas led you up the stairs and down the opposite end of the hallway as your room. You hadn't noticed during the first tour, but there was another set of stairs at the end of it. Thomas had not pointed them out. Perhaps it was a sort of secret hideaway for him. Until now. Now he was sharing it with you. Wordlessly, he led you up the ancient wooden steps. The stairway wound around and around until it opened up to a small landing and a door. Thomas opened the door to an attic.

The space was fairly small, but well lit by windows on two walls. It faced the back yard, showing a wide expanse of snow and woods. The room was filled with tools and equipment. Small figurines, wheels of all sizes, contraptions, and all manner of nuts and screws lay around haphazardly. Thomas watched you take it all in.

"This is my workshop," he explained. "I have spent many years in here, tinkering," he smiled fondly at the space as if it were an old friend.

Although you were sure his time here had been happy, your heart sunk realizing it must have also been quite lonely.

"I used to make toys for Lucille when we were younger," he said, picking up an old wooden doll. Its features were intricately cut and stunning.

"This is all amazing," you smiled at him. "What a nice surprise."

Thomas grinned even wider.

"This isn't the surprise," he said. "This is."

He walked over to the main work station and turned a box around. It was a music box. On the edges of it were neatly carved doves with small hearts between them.

"Open it," he urged. He moved to stand behind you, pressing his chest to your back. His presence felt comforting and you sighed happily, brushing your hands over the woodwork.

The box opened easily, and the moment it did, a familiar song began to play. Memories of a magical night flooded back to you as the waltz you had first danced to with Thomas filled the room. When you opened the box all the way, a man and woman figure stood together, frozen in time, spinning somehow together as the music played.

"Oh, Thomas," you breathed. It was exquisite craftsmanship, not to mention the thoughtfulness.

"Do you like it?" he whispered in your ear, kissing your neck afterwards.

"Of course," you smiled. You felt his hands wrap around your sides and fold together just below your stomach.

No matter all your unanswered questions about the spirits in this house, this much was certain: Thomas loved you.

You spun around to face him, cupping his face in your hands.

"What did I do to deserve such a romantic?" you asked.

"I should ask you the same question," he replied.

Thomas held you close and pulled you in for a kiss. It was sweet at first, innocent. But as you pressed yourself against him, it became more heated - desperate. You scrambled, trying to get your hands on the table. You pushed the music box, careful not to damage it, and made room before hoisting yourself onto the table. Thomas tongue explored your mouth, and yours his as you clung to one another in a passionate embrace. You lifted your gown and spread your legs for him, and he stepped between. His hands migrated down to your breasts and he cupped them gently, lovingly.

"I love you," you breathed between kisses.

He undid the buttons on his pants and shifted your panties for access. The desk allowed you perfect height and you wrapped your arms around his shoulders as he delved into you. It was not as painful as the first time for sure, but some sparks of pain flooded before the pleasure took its place. Thomas kissed you as he thrust into you. It was more desperate love making than it had been last night and you were more than okay with it. You wanted him badly, and he complied. As he thrust into you, he kissed you, biting your lower lip lightly. You held on as he began quickening his pace. He bent his knees, changing his angle and you gasped at the new sensation. It felt like small fireworks were going off everywhere in your body now. You felt the tingling growing and growing, your breath coming fast. You tangled your fingers in his hair as you came, clenching your walls around him. He gave a few more thrusts before he too came undone in your arms. You kissed in between watching each other as you rode it out, smiles unashamedly plastered on your faces. Your body felt tired, but satiated. He pulled out of you, but did not step away.

Then you heard a sound against the door. You closed your legs and Thomas buttoned his pants before Lucille came in with a tea tray and a scowl.

"Lucille," Thomas said breathlessly. You could see the blush in his cheeks and were sure yours were equally crimson.

"Thomas," she answered suspiciously.

You watched as she raked her eyes over the two of you, most likely assessing what just happened.

"I thought I heard you two come up here so I thought I would bring your lovely bride here more tea."

She gave you a false smile and placed the tea on the table.

"It's a shame we don't have tea you like," she said to Thomas. "One of these days we'll get to the store."

"Thank you, Lucille," you said, still trying to get on her good side if there was one. "That was thoughtful of you."

Lucille merely glared at you as she handed you a cup. You held it, but did not drink from it.

"Drink up," she ordered, bringing her cup to her lips.

You raised your cup to her and pretended to take a sip. Hopefully she would leave soon and you could simply dump it somewhere. However, she seemed in to hurry to leave. You let the cup rest on the table, hoping she wouldn't push it.

"Shouldn't you be working, brother?" she asked, not taking her eyes from you for a long time.

"I took a break to show my wife a gift I made her," Thomas said proudly, showing Lucille the music box. A selfish part of you didn't want Lucille to see it. You wanted it to be yours and Thomas', something that had nothing to do with her. You expected her eyes to go wide with surprise at the amazing detail in the music box, but she merely huffed, seemingly indifferent to it.

"How lucky she is," Lucille said. It sounded like she was jealous. Having been the recipient of many of Thomas' inventions and crafts, you could see why perhaps she would feel this way. Still, you were getting very tired of having to find sympathy for this woman.

"I am," you agreed, smiling at Thomas. He licked his lips as he looked at you and you shivered, the feel of him inside you still clear in your mind.

"Would you leave us, Lucille?" Thomas asked, not taking his eyes off of you. "I wish to be alone with my wife for a moment."

You could feel the waves of anger boiling out of Lucille. She nodded curtly and picked up the tea tray, leaving your cup behind. Thomas still did not look at her, too enraptured in you to care that she could probably have turned him to stone with that glare.

You felt immense relief once she left the room. You turned back to Thomas and saw that he was still smiling at you in that way that made your knees go weak. You were thankful you were still sitting on the desk.

"Do you really like it?" he asked, motioning to the music box.

"I do," you assured him. "And I really love you."

"I really love you too," he said, swooping in for another kiss. "But I do need to get back to work," he frowned.

"Are you sure?" you teased, opening your legs again. You could have sworn his eyes darkened a shade and small growl formed in his throat.

"Perhaps not right this moment," he conceded.

He kissed you again and you were surprised to see how quickly your need for him returned. You made love in the workshop again, every touch sending lightning through your veins, every kiss making your heart flutter dangerously. With this man, this thoughtful, sensitive, amazing man, it was easy to forget the cold and dangerous house with its cold and dangerous spirits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all enjoying this still! Sorry for the amateur smut writing. It's not my forte, but I hope you still like the story!


	13. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You persuade Thomas to spend the day with you in the library where you find something from his past.

In the morning as you lay in bed, warm and content in Thomas' arms, you found yourself holding on to him more tightly than usual. For some reason today was a day you wanted to be selfish. You wanted to spend time with him. Having passions of your own, you understood that he had an unending drive and enduring perseverance when it came to his machine, but you also knew that if he kept spending whole days locked away with that machine, you would lose him. Or, quite possibly, yourself.

You wanted just one day when you could laze around with Thomas. One day where you didn't have to walk the cold corridors alone. One day where you didn't have to face Lucille on your own. You were beginning to realize that even since the beginning, Thomas had made things more tolerable for you. It was more than that though. He had made them exciting again.

You watched him as he slept beside you, a peaceful expression on his face. Not thinking, you traced the line of his jaw with your finger, landing on his lips. You startled into a smile when those lips kissed your finger. Thomas' eyes fluttered open and he looked over sleepily at you.

"Do you know there is no greater sight to awaken to than that of your face?" he asked, his words heavy with sleep.

You blushed and looked away. He was on already. You dreaded the moment he would leave you for his cold tools and red clay. The expression must have read clearly on his face for he furrowed his brow.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asked, rolling over slightly to gaze at you.

You brushed your hand across his cheek and smiled fondly.

"No," you answered. "You said everything right."

His look of confusion did not lessen. You sat up, uncaring that your naked chest was uncovered by the blankets. Thomas did not miss the chance to admire your breasts before returning his attention to your face. You trailed your fingers down his firm chest, tracing patterns into his skin.

"I want you to stay," you barely whispered. It felt childish, like asking a relative to pick you up in their arms when you were much too old. "I don't want to be alone today," you managed to add through the embarrassment. Of course you were not afraid of Thomas' outward reaction. He had always and would always be kind to you. You were simply afraid that he might secretly think you ridiculous for requesting he spend an entire day with you.

"I'm right here," Thomas smiled easily. Your hand trailed down further towards his hips. You traced your name into his skin, wishing you could write it a thousand times so the world would know he was yours.

"For now," you conceded. "Do you know what it's like when you're gone?" you asked. You moved to straddle his hips, watching with delight as his eyes widened in response.

"No," he answered, clearing his throat a little. You smirked inwardly. This was petty, but it would get him to stay a little longer. You carefully unpinned your hair and let it fall around your face and shoulders.

"It's awful," you said truthfully. "When you're away all day... It's like a part of me is missing." You had meant to merely say it was awful, but the truth and loneliness came out on their own accord.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. He reached up to caress your hip. You leaned down to kiss him gently. When you pulled away he was smiling. "I will stay," he said. "Today. Just you and me."

"Really?" you asked, feeling equally elated and guilty.

"Of course," he answered as though it were obvious. "If my love requires my affections, then that is what she shall get."

You smiled and bit your lower lip. A playful gaze took over your eyes as you started to move your hips on top of him. A breathy sigh escaped Thomas' lips as he involuntarily brought his hips upwards. His eyes fluttered at your repeated movements and you could feel him growing harder beneath you. You felt empowered on top of him, watching him writhe beneath you. You could feel yourself growing wetter at the mere sight of him. His hands clutched your hips, his chest muscles tightened, his neck strained the slightest bit so that the muscles stretched in a rather delightful manner. When he opened his eyes there was a fire there - a fire that you had started. You doubled your efforts, slipping your hand down to stroke him now. Watching his reaction, you gauged what he liked best. Finally, you moved yourself into position and slowly lowered yourself down onto him. You both let out a sigh as he slipped into you easily.

You braced yourself, placing your hands on his chest. Unsure, but ready to test it out, you rose up, letting him slide almost all the way out of you before slowly lowering yourself back down. Thomas' grip on your hips tightened. You raised yourself again, this time assisted by Thomas. Repeating this slow pace, you soon felt that familiar tightening. You began to go faster, quickly doubling the pace. Thomas' moans underneath you fueled your thrusts and soon his hips were bucking up to meet you, sending shocks of pleasure through your body.

Thomas' eyes were right on you, watching you ride him with a look that both thrilled and scared you a little. The passion there, the love, the desire, was so intense. You hoped that you matched it and that when he looked at you, he saw everything you wanted from him.

Your orgasm took you by surprise and you nearly screamed Thomas' name. He watched with a small smile on his face that was only interrupted as his own orgasm took him. Your thrusts became more frantic as you rode them out, feeling Thomas spilling inside you. Your nails dug into his chest, releasing only when you had come down from your high. Your hips had sustained similar treatment from Thomas' hands. Welcome trophies.

You ran your hands through your hair, trying to return your breath to normal. Thomas sat up and kissed you, wrapping his arms around you. He buried his face in your hair and breathed you in. He gently rolled you over and slipped out of you, leaving you feeling just the least bit empty. Everything was better with Thomas. Especially like this. The house didn't feel so cold, the snow didn't seem so heavy. The way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world... You wished the moment could last forever.

Thomas laid down next to you, and you rolled over to look at him.

"Well, I'm not sure how we're going to top that with the rest of the days activities," he smirked. "But I am willing to give it a shot." A hint of mischief graced his features before he kissed you. "What would my princess like to do today?" he asked.

Truthfully, you would have spent the whole day in bed with Thomas. You had a feeling that your passions would take a while to extinguish, if they were in fact limited. However, you wanted to share more than just your bed with Thomas. You wanted to be in the house with him. Hopefully memories of him with you would help you get through the rest of the days when you were alone in the house.

"The library?" you asked. Feeling childish again, you asked, "Would you read to me?"

"Of course," he smiled. "Anything you ask of me, it is yours."

When you were able to haul yourselves out of bed, you got dressed. You felt it was about time you put on actual clothes. It felt nice to do so, like you had a purpose. You really needed to get back to writing, you decided, but today was for Thomas.

After a quick breakfast, blissfully devoid of Lucille, Thomas led you to the library. It would never cease to amaze you how large the library was. Other owners might have used the space for something else like a ballroom for guests, but these wonderful people devoted the space to the written word.

You followed Thomas as he wandered through the many shelves, tracing his fingers along the spines, searching. The leather-bound books seemed endless. You saw one that stuck out a bit from the others. Curious, you pulled it out to take a look at the title. You were alarmed when something fell from the shelves and hit the ground. It shimmered in the morning light. Leaning down to pick it up, you discovered it was a necklace. A plain, wooden heart on a golden chain. Why would a necklace be in a library?

You stood up, book in one hand, necklace in the other, to see a sad and concerned-looking Thomas.

"What is this?" you asked.

Thomas gave you a small, sad, smile. He took the necklace you presented and inspected it knowingly. He held it in his hands like the hand of an old friend.

"It belonged to my late wife," he said softly, barely audibly.

"Oh," was all you could manage. You had managed to forget that Thomas had been married once before, and that it had ended tragically.

Thomas said nothing and walked over to the nearby table. He sat down, staring at the necklace.

"She said she lost it," he reminisced. You sat down next to him, not touching him, just... being there. "She said she lost it, but she hid it." He shook his head. You weren't quite sure what he was feeling.

"What is it?" you repeated, not understanding the meaning behind it.

"I made this necklace for her when she first came here," he said. He still did not mention her by name and you were afraid to ask for it. "She was unhappy, as was I. It wasn't a marriage out of love... She was looking for an escape, and I thought Lucille might be less lonely... We never really... I tried to make her happy here." He looked so lost you wanted to pull him back from whatever dreadful memory he was in.

"I'm sorry," was all you could think to say. "She was lucky to have such a kind man."

Thomas smiled bitterly.

"Kindness couldn't save her. Her unhappiness here killed her in the end, I'm sure of it. She started getting sick right after the marriage... It was just a slow decline. Even though I didn't... I didn't love her, it was still hard." You could see how hard it had been. Love or no, living with another person, watching them die, it could not have been easy.

He twisted the chain, making the necklace spin. It was a simple heart, certainly no music box, but he had tried. He had done something for her. His kind heart never ceased to amaze you.

"It must have been difficult," you soothed him, laying your hand on his.

"It was," he admitted. "And I do not wish to go through it again," he said, almost as if he were warning you.

"I'm not going anywhere," you promised for what felt like the hundredth time.

He pulled your hand to his lips and kissed it.

"It would be far worse to lose you," he admitted. He closed his eyes and laid your hand against his forehead. "I do believe it might actually kill me."

You let that sink in for a moment before you realized you weren't breathing. Thomas' devotion to you had never been in question, but to the point of your loss affecting him so? You took a few deep breaths. You were about to counter him, to say something to the point that he would surely survive your loss, move on, eventually be happy. But then you thought about the opposite. If the roles were reversed, would you survive the loss? Coming up with nothing but his same feelings, you remained silent for time.

Somewhere outside the bubble you and Thomas had found yourselves in, you heard the wind howling outside. It was nearly silent in the library besides the sound of your and Thomas' breaths.

"Will you read to me?" you asked tentatively. You didn't want to make him do anything he wasn't up to, but you also did not want to watch him like this. He perked up at the suggestion, a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Of course," he answered. He stood, taking the book you had grabbed, and led you over to the large armchair.

You curled up in his lap and draped a blanket over the two of you. Snuggling in, you watched as Thomas found the beginning of the story.

In Thomas' arms, listening to him read to you, it felt like heaven. His voice was smooth and did not falter. He kept the story alive and you listened with rapt attention. Every now and then he would glance at you while finishing a line, or stop to plant a kiss on your lips or forehead.

You did not notice that foot after foot of snow was piling up outside. The wind continued to howl and the snow continued falling, essentially sealing you into the house. But for you, there was only Thomas' voice, and the calm, drifting, feeling you felt snuggled against him.


	14. Mother Knows Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You encounter another ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, sorry about the delay, I just got a puppy!! Anyway, hopefully I will be posting a little more regularly!

You stayed curled up in Thomas' lap for what seemed like your own little eternity. You could have stayed like that forever with Thomas' voice, low and sultry, the snow falling peacefully, albeit, generously outside. But it was not to be. Just as if she had sensed your growing happiness, she came to squash it. Lucille walked in and placed the abominable tea tray on the table next to the chair, smiling cruelly at you.

"Tea," she made it sound like an order. She then walked swiftly to the windows and stared out into them. Turning back to you with fake sadness she added, "Looks like no post office any time soon."

You pushed yourself up to see that the snow had accumulated a few feet already. Dispirited, you sunk back into the warmth of Thomas' lap. He stroked your hair tenderly.

"It will pass soon enough," he promised kindly. You hadn't realized what getting out of the house had meant to you until you lost the opportunity.

Lucille walked back across the room and took your hand, pulling you off of Thomas' lap. Awkwardly, you stumbled, having not expected the gesture, and got to your feet in time to see Lucille's satisfied expression. She then leaned down and practically forced a teacup into your hands.

"You'll need this now more than ever," she assured you with a strange glance at Thomas. "A lady is not fit for such cold conditions."

You rolled your eyes. "A lady can be fit for any condition," you countered, putting down the fowl tea. She scowled at you.

Thomas stood and wrapped his arms around you from behind. He kissed your neck warmly. You could feel the waves of anger rolling off Lucille, but Thomas was clearly oblivious. After stewing for a few moments and apparently coming to a boiling point, she nearly screamed, "Just drink the tea!" 

The shrill shriek startled both you and Thomas. Alarmed, you took the tea and faked a sip. She relaxed a little, but her eyes were still bulging with frustration.

"Maybe you should go lay down," Thomas offered, moving to console his sister. "Perhaps a nice bath?"

She sighed at his touch and smiled at him fondly. Not for the first time showing her tempestuous nature was both easily provoked and soothed.

"You're right," she said happily. "Will you help me? I feel ever so weak all of the sudden."

You felt your fists clench and you held back what you wanted to say. Whatever their relationship had been, it did not now entail this measure of closeness.

"I will certainly help you upstairs," Thomas said softly with the inferred unspoken addition of _but you can make the bath yourself._

Lucille seemed at first dissatisfied, but then acquiesced and took the arm Thomas offered her. With a sympathetic smile to you, Thomas led Lucille up the stairs. You threw the rest of the tea into the fireplace.

You awaited Thomas' return in the kitchen, figuring you would eat dinner together. Looking around the barren kitchen, you found means to make some soup. Although Margaret had cooked most of your meals, you had watched and assisted enough to pick up a few things. Thomas crept quietly into the kitchen and pressed himself against you while you were stirring the broth.

"A chef as well?" he asked in your ear. "How can all of you be in one woman?"

"It's a gift," you chided. You kissed him and asked, "How is your sister?"

"Distressed," he sighed. "Although I know not the cause."

"I believe it is me," you admitted. "I do not think she likes me."

Thomas shook his head, unbelieving.

"How could that be?" he asked. "Certainly that is not it."

You wanted to continue with this, but now was probably not the place. There was a high chance of Lucille walking in on the conversation or overhearing it at any moment.

"Perhaps not," you finished the conversation. Turning off the flame, you moved the finished soup to the counter.

"It smells divine," he complimented

The two of you ate in a peaceful silence. You were relieved that Lucille had not returned after her bath, giving you time alone with Thomas. By the time you and Thomas turned in for the night, having dined and snuggled by the fire together, you were strangely awake. The restful day had not prepared you for sleep.

"Perhaps you should take a bath as well?" Thomas suggested when you noted you were not sleepy.

You considered this and the more you thought about soothing hot water, the more you wanted to take a bath. It was certain to make you sleepier at least, and the thought of tossing and turning was not appealing.

Taking a towel and a change of clothes with you, you ventured down the dark hall to the bathroom. The wind was still howling and it seemed as thought the house was groaning in protest.

Walking into the bathroom, you laid your clothes and towels on the sink. You heard a clink and looked down to see Lucille's red ring on the ground, having fallen off of the sink. Before you could reach down and touch it, a black moth flew to it and stayed on the red stone. Uncaring about Lucille's possession, you stepped around the ring and turned on the water. Warming up quickly, you filled the tub, disrobed, and sank into the hot water.

It was as relaxing as you had hoped and you found again the small comfort of feeling at home at least in this one area of the house. Slowly, bit by bit, the mansion was starting to feel more natural to you, as if someone were slowly coloring in the house one room at a time.

You had closed your eyes and nearly started drifting to sleep, when you jerked awake. Thinking it to be a spasm of beginning to fall asleep, you decided it was about time you returned to bed. The water was getting cold anyway. However, you could not shake the feeling of the hairs on the back of your neck standing up. You wrapped your towel around you, glad that the steam had kept it warm.

Then, it was as if you knew you were about the see something horrible. You refused to turn your gaze back to the tub. Every fiber of your being knew that something was in there, but you didn't look. Not until you heard a rasping sound, like the last breaths of a dying man.

Against your judgement, you turned and saw her. Again, your screams caught in your throat as you took in the sight before you. Just where you had been laying in the tub, the spirit lay. It's face, skeletal, slightly feminine, you discerned, was mangled. The back of her skull was missing, bashed in. She sounded as though she were choking on blood, although her smokey form would not have allowed something so solid. You were frozen once again, torn between knowing you should want to run, and knowing it was important that you stay.

"What is it?" you barely whispered to the spirit.

You backed up a step as she pointed at you. No, not you, the floor. Once more step backwards and you found your heel was digging into Lucille's ring.

You picked up the ring with a shaky hand and presented it to the spirit.

"This?" you asked.

The spirit nodded, although it seemed that her neck was not at the natural angle. Her eyes were hallow, as had been the ghost in the hallway, but this was a decidedly different spirit. She looked... older, if that were possible.

"Did someone do this to you?" you asked, referring to her obvious cause of death.

"Beware," she croaked out. Her fingers stretched out as if trying to grasp the ring.

"Did Luc--"

The door opened and you finally screamed as Lucille walked into the room. She looked taken aback at both your scream and your presence. You swiftly turned to see that the spirit had vanished, leaving no trace of any sign she had been there.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Yes," you managed, once you had composed yourself.

"My apologies for intruding, but I came for that," she pointed at the ring.

Your mind immediately went to the spirit who had done the same thing. Now that you were looking at Lucille again, there seemed something familiar about her. She almost looked like the skeleton ghost you had just seen. But of course that was impossible. Lucille was very much alive.

Your hand was still shaking when you handed Lucille her ring.

"You look shaken. Did I really surprise you so badly?" she asked with a strange sort of pride.

"I was not expecting you," you responded.

She nodded, apologized once again, and headed back to the door. Before she left, she glanced once at the bathtub. You watched as two black moths fluttered from the ceiling to follow her before she shut the door behind her.

You stood, unmoving, for two solid minutes. It had been a while since you had seen a spirit in the house. Yes, last time you had felt the presence, but seeing that skeleton, the remains like that... you would never get used to it. The more you thought about it, the worse it got. Clearly that woman had been murdered. One didn't get a head wound like that by accident.

Once you had collected yourself as much as possible, you dressed in your nightgown and returned to your room. You slipped into bed, sitting up, very much awake. Thomas turned, awakened by your entrance. You were visibly shaking and wrapped your arms around your knees as you pulled them to your chest, trying to stop. Once Thomas had assessed your skittishness, he sat up and looked at you, concerned.

"What is it?" he asked, tucking your hair behind your ear.

"Nothing," you responded automatically.

"It is not nothing," he replied impatiently. "Tell me what it is that has scared you."

"I'm not scared," you bit back. "I'm sorry," you added when it came out more aggressively than you had meant.

"Tell me," Thomas ignored your refute.

You sighed, knowing he would not believe you.

"I saw something," you replied slowly. "In the bath tub."

"Are you alright?" he asked, thinking you had seen something on yourself.

"Yes," you assured him. "But... Thomas... Did someone... Die in that tub?"

Thomas' face went paler than the moonlight that lit the room. He moved his lips to speak, but nothing came out.

"I saw a woman," you continued, strangely encouraged by his frightened expression. "She looked older and... her skull was... mangled, bashed in," you said. Thomas was shaking his head quickly.

"No," he said to himself. "No, no no."

"What?" you asked. "It was real, wasn't it?" you felt a strange sort of vindication, pride. "Someone died in that tub. That was a real spirit?"

Thomas was still shaking his head, anger building in his shoulders until they rose up. You put a hand on his right shoulder to comfort him but he pushed it away violently.

"How?" he asked. He seemed to be asking himself.

"Thomas," you said, careful not to get too close. "Who was that?"

For a few moments, Thomas stared at the sheets. He seemed to be mumbling something to himself and the brought his hands to his face and started to cry softly. Feeling relatively sure he would not lash out, you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him to you, letting him rest against your breasts.

"Shh," you soothed. "Tell me."

"My mother," he said, slowing his breathing down and stemming the tears. "My mother died in that tub."

You held his face in your hands.

"How?" you asked solemnly.

"She slipped," he answered. "Her skull was broken. It happened when I was very young. That was what orphaned us."

That's what made Thomas and Lucille so close, you reasoned. Suspicion began to build, but you were in no position to accuse.

"Her head wounds looked very serious," you said. "It did not look like a simple slip."

"The doctor said she had weak bones. Her skull was not prepared for the impact as a normal person might have been."

The explanation seemed questionable at best, but you held your tongue. Thomas had not seen what you had seen. The gaping hole was no accident. Of that you were sure. Besides, of what you had read of spirits, they did not haunt places of accidents.

The realization made you stiffen. The ghost had pointed to Lucille's ring. Was she revealing her murderer? There was a possibility she wished simply to convey something to Lucille. But she had warned you. _Beware,_ she had said. Your mind twisted around in too many shapes to form a conclusion. You kept your suspicions to yourself. You had no proof. Thomas would not likely believe you that his lifelong companion had murdered their mother.

Thomas composed himself and sat up to look at you, wiping the last of his tears from his face.

"I am sorry," he said softly.

"No," you assured him. "I am sorry."

"You could not help what you saw," he reasoned.

"Have many people died in this house?" you asked, thinking of the other spirit you had encountered.

"No," he assured you. "I have only had the misfortune of losing my mother and late wife."

Of course, the veil from the first ghost. Why had you not put that together before. What could his late wife have reason to haunt for? She died of sickness, had she not? All of this was too overwhelming and you were, at the moment, more concerned with Thomas' broken expression.

"Tell me about her," you offered, laying back on the bed. "What was your mother like?"

Thomas looked sad, but smiled fondly at you. He lay beside you, facing you, and began to reminisce.

You listened to the stories he told with interest. He and his mother had been close. She loved him very much and spent a lot of time with him, especially after their father died at war. He seemed to have loved her very much and you were sad he had to lose her so early. The tales then led to her death and how his and Lucille's relationship had been affected afterwards. They had become each others worlds, he described.

You listened with wariness to the rest. If Lucille was threatened by you, you wondered if it were possible she was threatened by their mother too. Was she that protective of Thomas to do something so horrible? You did not want to believe it. You listened to Thomas until you both fell asleep. Perhaps the morning would shed light on the horrid events of the evening and the information you had been given as well. Although the questions scared you, you also feared you already knew the answers.


	15. Promises and Sabotage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spirit leads you to the basement where you discover something about Lucille.

The morning light did little to defer the dark thoughts that still swarmed your brain like locusts. The night's discoveries had not led to anything pleasant. You did not want to think about them because to think would be to realize that you were not safe in your own home. You awoke before Thomas and dreaded the moment he arose. He looked so calm and peaceful asleep and you did not wish him to awaken the thoughts you had stirred.

When he did finally open his eyes, he found you staring at him.

"Is everything alright?" he asked groggily. Neither of you had slept well and it showed.

"As alright as can be," you answered.

He took your hand and kissed it softly.

"Would it be terrible of me to leave you alone today?" he asked. "I know after last night... It can't have been easy."

You sighed. Although you were scared, it was not of the ghosts, as perhaps it should have been. You were more afraid of what the spirits seemed to be afraid of: Lucille.

"You want to work on your machine?" you guessed. He nodded. "I have kept you to myself long enough," you noted, having stolen him for a whole day. "If it is important to you, I want you to do it."

He gave a sad smile.

"I'm so close," he said enthusiastically. That familiar glint of excitement lit up his eyes at the discussion of his work. "I have most of it working perfectly. It just seems to be the parts in the basement that won't work properly. The part of the machine that deposits the clay always rusts or breaks. Perhaps it is the atmosphere in the dank basement, but whatever it is, I can't seem to get a handle on it."

"I'm sure you will," you assured him. "You're quite intelligent and tenacious." He smirked.

"Tenacious?" he asked. "Isn't it a bit early for such a vocabulary?" He teased you as he leaned in to kiss you. Reveling in the feeling of his lips on yours you almost forgot about all that plagued you. "If I can figure this machine out, we could sell it... And we could leave this place."

You sat back to look at him.

"Leave?" you asked. He nodded.

"This house has seen too much darkness," he said gravely. "With the money from the machine we could start over. Just the two of us."

Just the two of us. No Lucille, then. That was new.

"What would happen to Lucille?" you asked shyly.

Thomas shrugged.

"She's a grown woman. It is time we learned to grow up and become independent of each other. It has been a long time coming."

You were surprised by this declaration. It seemed he was becoming less and less attached to Lucille. It made you happy of course, but you wondered how much he suspected of her. Did he think, as you did, that she might be responsible for their mother's death? You did not believe so, not yet any way. It took a lot to shake away the blindness caused by love and co-dependence.

"I would love that," you said. "A nice little house, somewhere warm."

"With a garden," he added.

"And a library," you countered. A smile spread across both your faces.

"Soon," he promised, leaning over and pressing his lips to your collarbone.

Watching Thomas leave was heart wrenching, even if it was only onto the grounds. Thomas assured you that it was not as dangerous in the snow as you feared. The machine needed to be cleaned off, which would take the better part of the morning, in order to keep the gears in good shape.

You quietly wandered the mansion with no particular goal in mind. You had dressed in your warmest dress and wrapped a blanket around your shoulders. You flinched as you saw Lucille's figure cross the hall, but she did not bother you. You chose to hide away in the library.

Lighting a fire, you settled down with a book and began to read. Upon reaching the second chapter, you felt a familiar feeling creep down your spine. Again your hand turned cold and your blood froze in your veins. You knew what was coming next, but that did not stop the gasp that escaped your lips as the cold, invisible hand pulled you out of your chair.

"Where are you taking me?" you asked, trying to hide the fright in your voice. The spirit had been a little violent last time, perhaps out of impatience, and you were worried it would happen again.

The spirit said nothing, but continued to pull you along with its loose, icy grip. You would have said that it felt as though they were mere bones pulling you along. The grip was not that of a fleshy hand. Checking the corners and all around you for Lucille, you allowed the spirit to lead you. Again you found yourself at the elevator.

"What's down there?" you asked the air. No reply. Instead, the doors rattled and opened. You could feel the spirit waiting for you to step in. You couldn't refuse. Curiosity might be the death of you, but not knowing was worse. The doors closed without any assistance from you once you were inside the cage. The lever was pulled and down you went.

The elevator, like the rest of the house, was decrepit. You were surprised it even worked at all. The handles and bars were rusty and the paint was peeling.

You looked up to realize a few black moths were nestled into the corners of the top of the box.

After what seemed like ages, much more than just one floor, the elevator stopped. You tentatively put your hands on the bars and opened them, stepping out into the lower level. Cautiously, afraid you might be caught by either Thomas or Lucille at any time, you crept out of the elevator.

The main portion of the basement was guarded by a gate with a large lock. Behind the bars you could see six vats of red clay, three on each side, divided by a small pathway in between. The vats were about four feet in diameter each and you did not know how deep they went, although they only stood about three feet high.

You jostled the lock in your hands, but it would not budge. Sighing, you turned back, not seeing any other way in. The cold grip on your hands returned to turn you back around. The lock clanged against the bars, turned black, and then opened.

You felt your jaw drop at the feat the spirit had just shown you.

"Thank you," you mumbled, feeling obligated.

Stepping through the gate, you closed it behind you. The place smelled like earth but with a hint of something you couldn't identify. You tried to be observant of everything. The ghost must have brought you down here for some reason, but why? Your hand was free from any icy grip, leaving you to wonder how you were supposed to know where to look.

At the end of the long room, you saw the parts of Thomas' machine that led from above into the basement. It looked quite complicated and you dared not touch it, lest you break something by accident. You could see how it worked, how the clay was carried from the scoops coming down into the vats. You marveled at it for some time, proud of your husband for his ingenuity.

Walking around the machine, you found a cabinet in the corner. It was small, and you would have missed it if you hadn't inspected the machine. It stood about four feet high and was very slim. It only had one door, but this, too, was locked. You looked around in vain for the spirit's assistance with the lock. You jiggled it again, but nothing happened. Frowning, you made to leave when you heard the elevator. You froze.

Either it was Thomas, and he would be angry for you endangering yourself down here, or it would be Lucille, who would probably have your head for sneaking down here.

You ran to the farthest vat and hid behind it, careful to make sure your hair wasn't peeking over the top. Your heart slammed in your chest as you heard the elevator stop, and the doors creak open. Keys jingled and you slowly crept around the side of the vat to take a peek.

Lucille walked up to the door and frowned at the broken lock. She put her keys back in her dress pockets and pushed the door open tentatively. Clearly she was suspicious that some one had gotten in, but when she looked around and saw and heard nothing, she relaxed. You wondered if the spirits had done this to her before, and that is why she was not more inquisitive.

Lucille strode purposefully across the room, dragging her dress carelessly through the clay on the floor, towards the machine. She looked at it carefully, seemingly admiring her brothers work. She then took a wrench out of her dress and loosened several bolts.

You gave a small, involuntary gasp, and her head snapped your way. You clasped your hand over your mouth and held your breath. You dared not move an inch. You listened intently for any footsteps, but heard none. All was silent for a moment longer before Lucille could be heard again with the wrench. You peeked back out and watched her pocket a few screws. She then reached behind the machine and took out a glass. She carefully poured what seemed to be water over the length of the machine. Could she be intentionally trying to rust it? Thomas had wanted to clear the snow from the machine this morning for fear of what the water and condensation would do to it. Why would Lucille be harming Thomas' machine?

You remembered what Thomas had promised this morning. Perhaps it did not escape Lucille that if Thomas were to make his fortune, now that you were here, she would get left behind in the new life he promised you.

Satisfied that this was the reason the ghost had led you down here, you were more surprised when Lucille then went over to the cabinet, after hiding the glass of water, and opened the small cabinet.

Inside, you could see there were tens of small vials, filled with liquids of all different colors. She rustled through the vials for one in the back, placed it in her dress, and closed the door. What could she be hiding away in there? Nothing good, that was sure. You watched as she closed the lock, took one more look around the room, and walked out, closing and locking the gate behind her.

You stayed where you were a few moments after the elevator reached the top. You then stood and walked over to the cabinet. Again, hoping for some assistance, you waited by the lock. Nothing happened.

"Hello?" you whispered. You waited, but nothing happened.

Wondering where the spirit had gone, you were suddenly struck with the realization that you were now stuck in the basement. Lucille had locked you in and your spirit had seemingly disappeared. Had it meant to lock you down here? Perhaps it had exerted itself by leading you down here?

You went to the locked door and tried to open it, but of course you did not succeed. You paced around for a few moments, wondering what to do. You could wait until Lucille or Thomas came back down and make up some excuse as to why you were in the only part of the house they had specifically told you not to go, or you could find another way out.

Glancing over at Thomas' machine, you saw that the shovel-like parts that moved and collected the clay led all the way up. You walked back over and saw that it opened up to the ground above. The opening seemed large enough for you to climb through, assuming you were able to climb up the machine.

Thinking about the screws Lucille had loosened, you wondered if it would support your weight. You carefully tested it, placing your hand on the cold metal. Some of the shovels still had clay on them. If you were successful, you would have to hide your dress and wash it quickly.

Placing your foot on the lowest hold, you slowly put your weight onto it. It creaked, but seemed steady enough. You added your other foot and stood on the machine hesitantly. Looking up, it was a long way to the top.

Hand, hand, foot, foot, you repeated the movements as you climbed carefully up the machine. The shovels moved slightly, as was their design, and you had to be careful not to slip on the red clay. You climbed slowly and your arms and legs ached by the time you reached the top. The ground had been packed down around the entrance and wooden boards held it in place. The machine continued on, up and up, with tanks and measuring instruments strewn about it.

Getting up out of the ground, you realized you were in about three feet of snow. Already it had soaked through your stained dress and pressed against your skin. You shook violently. It had been cold in the basement because of the ventilation, but not as cold as out here. Nearly blinded by the bright snow in the sun, you turned and looked around you, expecting to see Thomas somewhere. The machine was clear of snow and you wondered if he had just finished and was off to attend to the subterranean parts of his machine. Lucky timing, you thought.

You did not wish to explain why you had crawled out of the basement to Thomas. With any luck, you could make it back to the house and into your room before anyone saw you.

On the long walk back to the house, about a half a mile in the cold and unyielding snow, you had time to think about what you had just seen. This did nothing to quell the suspicions you had of Lucille's character. Sabotaging someone she supposedly loved in order to make him stay with her was not surprising. You wondered how she rationalized it to herself. Perhaps she did not. Perhaps she did not care.

You wondered what you should tell Thomas. He had believed you about the ghost, but only because you had seen something that he had never told you about. Would he believe you that Lucille was intentionally harming his machine? And what was in those vials that she stowed away?

You were determined to avoid Lucille at all costs, even if it meant hiding away, until you decided what you were going to do. You did not think that Thomas would do anything too drastic if you told him this information, but you did not think he would be likely to believe it either. Not without proof. And right now, all you had was your word.

You made it to the front doors, thoroughly drenched in snow, and shivering. You slipped inside and flew up the stairs and into your room, closing the door quickly behind you. Shedding the wet clothes, you grabbed a dressing gown and wrapped yourself in the covers, waiting to warm up.

Shivering there in your bed, you realized how alone you were. You could not tell Thomas everything that you had seen without risking the relationship you two had finally started to build. You couldn't confront Lucille without fearing meeting the same fate as their mother.

Suddenly you saw the candle on the beside table light by itself and move closer to you. The covers moved of their own accord and tucked you in tighter. You felt a soft touch on your hair and sighed. Perhaps you were not so alone as you had thought. You let the spirits comfort you, and were, in a way, glad that they were not visible at the moment. The comforting strokes of your hair and the small heat of the candle comforted you enough to lull you into sleep.


	16. Eye of the Beholder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You discover another of Thomas' talents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's shorter, it's just an interlude for the next few which will be longer! Thanks for the support!

You slept all through the day without meaning to. The stress of what you had learned, and the near hypothermia you had encountered was enough to knock you out until dinner. You opened your eyes slowly, unknowing what time it was. There was a fading yellow light filling the bedroom. Close to sunset then. But something was blocking the light. A figure sat on a stool in front of the window.

Blinking, you saw it was Thomas, poised with a pencil and sketch pad, enraptured in whatever he was drawing.

"Hello," you greeted warmly, surprised to see him so early in the evening. Of course you were not complaining.

Thomas jumped a little at your words since the last time he had looked up, you had been sound asleep. He quickly composed his surprised expression into a gentle smile.

"I did not mean to wake you," he said guiltily.

"You didn't," you promised. "It's about time I got up."

"Are you not feeling well?" Thomas asked, moving to sit on the bed with you. He placed his sketchbook behind him.

"I was just feeling a little... under the weather," you replied carefully.

"And now?" he asked.

You felt your warm fingers and toes, noted the candles that had been extinguished after you fell asleep and sighed happily.

"Much better."

Thomas beamed at you as you sat up. He cupped your face and pulled you in for a long kiss. When he pulled away, you saw the sketchbook sitting closed behind him.

"Can I ask what you were drawing so intently?" you asked.

Thomas' cheeks flushed and he reached back for the book. He held it against his chest as if guarding his heart.

"Do not judge me too harshly, my love. I am but an amateur."

Slowly, he handed you the book. The leather that bound it was rich and soft. The pages looked thick and expensive. You opened to the first page. There were a few drawings of his machine, all different parts, sketched in great detail. The intricacy intrigued you. You flipped through and found a few more pages of similar drawings, all of his machines and ideas about how to improve it. Calculations and incoherent words surrounded the drawings and you again marveled at his mind.

"Thomas these are--" you stopped mid sentence as the next page you turned to revealed your own countenance looking up from the page.

Slowly, and with pure love swelling in your chest, you looked through the rest of the sketch book. Every page had you on it. Some had just your face, with your eyes immaculately drawn with every detail tended to. Others had you lying naked in bed, or reading in the library. Every picture took your breath away. He was exaggerating your features, if not completely fabricating your beauty.

"These are of me?" you confirmed.

"Yes," he chuckled. "Is it not a good likeness?"

"Surely this woman is my more beautiful twin sister?" you chided self consciously.

Thomas looked at you seriously.

"You do not see yourself in this way?"

You glanced again at the easy curves of this woman's breasts, the confidence in her eyes, the pure sexual presence.

"I believe you exaggerated certain aspects," you smiled.

"I never exaggerate," he said seriously. "I draw what is there. I have a mind for inventing, for engineering. It does not suit me to draw something other than how it actually is."

He moved closer to you and gently placed the sketchbook on the bed, leaving your hands open to him.

"There was a time when all I could think of were my inventions. I drew them constantly in all angles, all conceptions... But now I cannot. Now I can only draw you, for you are the only thing on my mind."

"Truly?" you asked, feeling the blush in your cheeks.

Thomas nodded and leaned in, kissing you passionately. Your hands roamed down his chest and you tugged at his shirt. He obliged by lifting up his hands and helping you rid him of the intrusive fabric. His lips then returned to your lips, only to leave them and trail kisses down your neck, sucking at points so hard, it would surely leave marks. Still in your dressing gown, Thomas easily slipped it open and found you nude underneath.

Quickly undoing his pants, he slipped those off to join his shirt on the floor. The two of you pressed together, your bare skin tingling at every point you touched. Thomas' tongue was in your mouth, claiming you as his own, and at the same time begging you to be his.

You opened your legs for him and he obliged by filling you up completely, watching you attentively as you gasped with pleasure. He smiled down at you and licked his lips.

"I shall have to draw _that_ face," he whispered mischievously. "I think that may be my favorite of your expressions."

In response to his proud smirk, you bucked your hips up to meet him. The change was instant, and his expressive dissolved into that of ecstasy. You gave your own smirk in response. He leaned his head down to gently bite your lower lip.

"That was not fair," he said breathlessly. You smiled in triumph and repeated your move.

The two of you picked up the pace fairly quickly after that, clutching on to each other and gasping into each others mouths. When you came together, you watched as Thomas' eyes filled with more love and adoration, his lips crashing down to meet yours desperately.

He kissed you while your pleasure washed over you in waves. When you had found the last of your high had gone, he slipped out of you. Without disengaging contact at all, he pulled your back to his chest and held you tightly, as though you might float away if he let go for an instant.

"Do you feel it now?" he breathed against your neck and kissed it.

"What's that?" you said, half lost in the sensation of his lips on your skin.

"How beautiful you are?" he asked.

You thought about the way he held you, the way he looked at you. Even if you could not see it yourself, you knew that Thomas certainly did. There was no doubt to his feelings.

"Yes," you answered. And when you said it, you started to believe it yourself. You were beautiful. You deserved the love of this man, and he yours.

Suddenly, the plan of making money and moving away seemed more important than ever. If you wanted this to continue, if you wanted to be with Thomas, to be truly happy, you would need to get out of this place. The thought of little dark haired children came unbidden, but not unwanted, and you felt in your soul that this was what needed to happen. All you needed was some kind of plan.


	17. Whispers from a Dead Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You discover something Thomas' late wife left behind.

Thomas left you in the morning after giving you his sketchbook and promising to be back in time for dinner. You watched him go with a heavy heart, yearning more than ever to tell him of your encounters and suspicions. Resolved to plan something first, you decided to get dressed and head to the library. You brought the sketchbook along, curious to take a closer look at Thomas' designs to see what, if anything, you could understand, and to see what Lucille believed she was doing to prevent it from working. You also secretly knew you would look at his drawing of yourself again. The way he saw you... The way he captured every curve, the expression in your eyes... It was intoxicating and quite flattering.

The mansion was still as cold as ever so you grabbed a shawl before leaving your room. The more you looked into the corners of nearly every room, the more you noticed the peeling wallpaper and the black moths which were most likely the cause of it. They seemed to stay away from you for the most part, but you still hated them. Averting your eyes, and focusing on your path, you soon found yourself in the library. You set the sketchbook down on the table, intent on picking a book for when you were done gazing at the drawings.

You let your feet take you where they might, wandering around bookshelf after bookshelf. It somehow seemed warmer in the library, although you had not lit a fire yet. You felt more at home in this room than any other place, with the exception of the bedroom so long as Thomas was in it.

Trailing your fingers across the book spines absently, you suddenly stopped when you felt something different. Turning, you looked at the offending book with surprise. For reasons you could not discern, this book had a different spine than the rest. Rather than leather, it seemed almost like velvet. Looking at it, you would not have known the difference. Both looked worn and dark colored. But upon feeling it again, you realized it was much softer than the other books. It was a good sized book too. Larger than even the longest novel you had seen before. How had this escaped your notice? Looking around the aisle, you realized this was around the spot that you had found Thomas' late wife's necklace.

Curious, you pulled the softer book out of the shelf and held it. It was heavier than you would have supposed it to be. Even stranger still, it had no title that you could see. No markings indicated what the book was, or by whom it was written. Feeling a sort of connecting with this misfit, you took it over to the table to examine the contents.

Sitting down, you opened the cover to the first page. It was blank. Turning that page revealed something even more odd. The book was hollowed out. The deep pages had been cut in order to contain the wax cylinder within it. You had seen these before, played a few, even, but you were surprised to see one here, let alone in such a peculiar place. The reflection on the necklace came back to you. Perhaps this belonged to the previous wife as well? Perhaps she had hidden several things in the library. It was not unlikely. Closing the book with the cylinder inside, you looked around the large room for some kind of playing device.

Traversing the room, you rummaged through the cabinets in the back. With a small amount of luck, you found the device that would play the wax cylinder's recording for you. Just as you were leaning down to take the device out, you heard footsteps at the far end of the room. Turning abruptly, you saw Lucille coming in with the horrid tea tray, a harsh smile on her lips.

"My dear," she addressed you too warmly. "My apologies for my absence lately. I feel we have not seen each other in ages. I thought I might bring you some tea. I'm afraid the weather is still ghastly outside."

You quickly peered out the snow-coated window and sighed. The high rifts of snow had show no sign of lessening, and indeed had been added to the previous night with a smaller storm. The post office seemed further and further away. You suddenly missed your father and Margaret terribly and felt further away from them than ever.

Remembering Lucille, your eyes darted to the book containing the cylinder and then back to Lucille. She did not seem to have noticed it, or, if she did, gave no indication that it meant anything to her. She walked over to the table and pushed it aside, making room for her tea. She noticed the sketchbook and took it into her hands. Flipping through it, her smile started out genuinely and then faded into a look of pure disgust. She threw the book back down on the table and huffed.

Turning to you and adjusting her features into a look of indifference, she picked up the teapot.

"Tea?" she asked.

You nodded for fear of provoking her. Clearly she did not enjoy the drawings that Thomas had done of you. You blushed, realizing she would have seen you nude in them.

Lucille poured the tea and handed you a cup.

"Aren't you drinking too?" you couldn't help asking.

"I already had mine," she answered coolly, watching you carefully.

The bitter taste of the tea entered your mouth. It was clear from her stance and countenance that she was not going to leave your side until you had finished.

"Thank you," you said, trying to encourage her to leave. The excitement of finding the recording was weighing on you and you wanted so badly to hear it.

"I must make sure my sister gets the right nourishment," she said. This surprised you, as Lucille had never referenced you in such a familial way.

You took another sip, noting the anger that wafted just under Lucille's calm exterior. She smiled genuinely as you drank, and you wondered with dread what pleasure she could possibly draw from making you drink such mud.

As you took the smallest sips possible, hoping she would leave out of boredom before you had to finish, you noticed a black moth land on her shoulder. She did not seem to notice and you didn't care to inform her. You wondered why they were so drawn to her. You had never seen any on Thomas or yourself.

You had managed to drink only a few small sips of tea. Your mind raced, trying to figure out how to get Lucille out of here so you could listen to the recording, and, if possible, not have to finish your tea. Your thoughts went to her precious basement and an idea formed.

"Did you hear something earlier?" you asked slyly. "From the basement? I thought I heard some kind of noise down there. I was sure it wasn't Thomas, for he was outside. And you were in the kitchen Do you know of anyone that might have been down there?" you lied easily.

Lucille's face went paler than usual.

"No," she responded stiffly. "I did not hear anyone. And no one would be here without our knowing."

She smiled hurriedly and stood.

"I will leave you to your tea," she said, clearly alarmed. Perhaps she feared the spirits had done something to her precious cabinet or sabotage supplies.

"Thank you," you nearly chuckled as she speed walked out of the room.

Hearing her footsteps lessen, and waiting for the elevator to start, you figured you had a few minutes at least, if she were to return to you.

You grabbed the device from the cabinet and brought the cylinder over to it. Upon removing it, you noticed there was also an old photograph. The small print revealed Thomas, a little younger, and a very pretty young woman. Neither looked particularly happy, and stood, without touching, next to each other. Putting the photograph down next to the device, you prepared it, and it began to play.

The crackling started and a small, shy woman's voice began to speak. She seemed to be speaking barely above a whisper and you leaned in to listen.

"Hello," the voice spoke. "This is Edith Sharpe. I am recording this in November of 1880 with hopes that someone might discover it and right the wrongs that I have witnessed."

You felt your hands start to shake and leaned in closer to hear her better. It felt as though she were there with you, rather than just her voice.

"Where to begin? From the beginning I suppose. Do forgive me, dear listener, for I do not have all my wits about me. I will explain. I have just arrived at Crimson Peak, after marrying Sir Thomas Sharpe. Our marriage was not one of love, but rather, money. My father needed to find me a husband, and the Sharpes were in need of my dowry. I do like Sir Thomas, but I find that our mere tolerance of each other does not lessen the horrors I have come to find in this house.

I urge you to believe me, dear listener. The Sharpes are not as they appear to be. I amend that by saying Lucille Sharpe is not the person she appears to be.

I fear for my life. I believe that Lucille Sharpe is poisoning me and that I will soon be dead. After her warnings of the basement, and my suspicions of her, I stole her key ring. I discovered that the basement held a cabinet full of poison, with a key known only to Lucille. I also discovered that inside this cabinet were water and tools. They were not Sir Thomas' tools, for he keeps his in a separate compartment in his room. He would never keep them in that dank basement.

The poison, I believe is in the tea. At least, it was. I drank the tea that she gave me willingly at first. And then I began to become ill. I coughed up blood. When I started refusing the tea, I believe she found ways to poison my food. I could not simply starve myself, or let myself die of thirst. I tried to obtain my own food, but I never knew what she has tampered with. I believe it is too late now anyway. The coughing does not stop, and Thomas cannot be convinced that it is anything more than a nasty cold.

I dare not tell him of my suspicions or of my proof. We are not close. He would undeniably be outraged by my accusations. I am afraid that he would divorce or disown me.

I am recording this, dear listener, because I fear this is not the first, nor the last time Lucille will kill. I have seen things in this house. I have heard spirits, felt spirits, and seen them. I believe I saw the ghost of their mother in the bath tub. I have reason to believe that Lucille was behind whatever fate befell her.

Listen to me, listener," the voice pleaded. "Leave this place. Leave Crimson Peak at whatever cost. If not, you will die here. Just as I surely will."

The recording cut off after that and sat, cold and stunned, waiting for things to fall into place in your head.

Of course you believed her. Everything she said made sense. You had seen the basement with your own eyes. You had not known that the vials Lucille sought were poison, but you did not doubt it. Memories of stomach pain came back to you, and you had no doubt it was the cause of the slight amount of poison you had drank from the tea.

In a way, it felt as though you had a friend. You wondered if she were the spirit in the veil. Perhaps her ghost had felt she had essentially died the day she married Thomas. But hearing her words, hearing your own suspicions aloud made you feel so much less alone, you almost smiled. Then, remembering where your companion was now, you stopped. Lucille had most definitely murdered her by poisoning. Now that you knew her designs for sure, you could not wait any longer. Showing Thomas this recording, in addition to the proof in the basement made you feel confident that he would believe you. Your bond was strong enough by now to waive the fears that Edith had had of divorce or abandonment.

With your resolve held tightly in your heart, you packed away the device and returned the cylinder to the book. Just as you closed the cover, Lucille returned. Your heart beat faster in your chest as the woman who had been trying to kill you walked closer.

"Are you alright?" she asked. "You look pale."

"I'm fine," you assured her warily. "Did you find anything in the basement?" you asked, not expecting her to tell you even if you hadn't been lying about hearing something.

"No," she answered curtly.

Your eyes moved behind her as they caught the movement of Thomas walking into the room. His coat was wet on the bottom half with snow and he walked over to you.

"Why so pale, darling?" he asked sweetly, kissing you softly.

"I am not," you assured him.

His eyes drifted over to Lucille and he looked serious.

"Were you in the basement just now?" he asked sternly. Lucille blushed.

"Yes," she answered. "(Y/N) said she heard something, so I was just checking."

"It is dangerous," he scolded. "You should have asked me to check. My machine has moving parts, you know. You could have been hurt."

Lucille looked pleased at his concern, but faked a guilty look.

"I am sorry," she said.

"It is alright," Thomas answered softly.

You were barely paying attention to what was being said. All you could think about was showing Thomas the recording and convincing him of Lucille's actions. Thomas turned back to you with a look of concern on his features.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he asked again. "I could help you into bed, get you some soup?" he offered.

The idea of getting Thomas alone so soon made you nearly scream yes in response, but Lucille spoke before you could.

"Do not worry, brother. I will see that she gets well soon. Go, invent something," she ordered with a smile.

Thomas looked thankfully at her and you nearly screamed in frustration.

"No, please, Thomas," you pleaded. "Stay."

Thomas looked contrite, but shook his head.

"My sister will take care of you, pet," he assured. "I will be back for dinner, and then I promise, I will stay with you all night and the next day. How's that? I am very close to accomplishing something today."

Your face fell and he apologized again and kissed you. Once he left the room, you tried to convince Lucille that you were fine, but she would not hear of it.

"Go upstairs and I will fetch you some soup," she ordered.

With no other options, you did as you were told. You tucked yourself into bed. You planned to make yourself vomit on the floor right as she was walking in, hoping that would both dispel her from the room, and give you cause not to eat anything she might bring you.

You had your proof, or as good as. Now all you had to do was wait until you and Thomas were alone to make your move. You just had to hope the love between the two of you was strong enough to outweigh a lifetime relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the allusion to Edith :) I guess it could be a sort of AU where Thomas didn't quite love her/she wasn't as badass as she was in the movie. Anyway, I thought I'd pay homage.   
> Thanks as always for the comments and kudos <3


	18. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You decide to confide in Thomas.

Avoiding Lucille's poisoned food was harder than you expected. Once you had hidden away in your room, you poised yourself on the floor, fingers ready to make yourself vomit right as she was entering.

As planned, you heard her coming and started retching, bringing up the small amount of food you had consumed that day. Smiling inwardly, you looked up at her with what you hoped was a pitiable expression. Lucille looked down on you with slight discuss and laid the tray of food down on the night stand. You eyed the poisoned food warily. Lucille stooped down and slid one hand under your arm, pulling you up violently.

"In bed," she commanded, pushing you slightly towards the mattress.

You sank into the comfortable bed and slid down. Lucille sat on the side and took the bowl in her hands.

"I'm still nauseous," you protested, as she raised the spoon, the heat rising off the soup.

"This will help," she promised.

"I don't think I'll keep it down," you responded, sinking deeper into the covers, wishing more than anything Thomas were here.

"Try," she answered briskly.

She propped pillows up behind you with one hand, angling your head for swallowing the soup.

"Please," you tried, pushing her hand away.

"You're lucky I'm here," Lucile said. "Not just anyone would take care of you."

She made it sound like you were a burden somehow.

Suddenly, outside, you heard a loud hum start to get louder. Turning, you saw Lucille frown.

"What's that?" you asked.

"Thomas must have gotten it working," Lucille sneered, putting the soup back on the table in favor of going to the window. She peered around the side and must have been upset by what she saw for she stormed back and picked the soup up with renewed energy. You looked for a way out. Any way you could find. But other than assault, you could not see how to avoid eating what Lucille was now nearly forcing in your direction.

You panicked, wondering how long the poison needed in your system to do any harm. If it sat for an hour could you still throw it up without lasting effects? You certainly did not want to cough up blood. Lucille gave you a sadistic smile as she watched your panic. Did she know that you knew? You did not feel that you could take her in a fight. Not without a weapon, anyway, and there was nothing within reach that would help.

Lucille put down the bowl, focusing more on the spoonful at the moment. She blew on it slightly and lifted it to your mouth. With a loud crash, the soup bowl flew a few feet and hit the floor, splattering the hot liquid everywhere on the rug.

"Dammit!" Lucille shrieked. You took this opportunity to "accidentally" knock the spoonful over as well, faking shock at the felled bowl.

Smirking, you realized one of the spirits must have done that. Edith, you figured. You thanked her silently.

"What was that?" you faked concern. Lucille fumed at you.

"This house is so drafty," she vaguely explained. "Things are constantly falling off because of the wind."

That was nowhere near a good enough explanation, but you already knew the real answer and did not want Lucille to know you knew.

"Oh well," you sighed, slinking back down under the covers. "Thanks anyway." You couldn't help the smugness in your voice and Lucille glared at you. "I guess I'll just wait till Thomas gets back. He'll take care of me."

"For now," Lucille muttered under her breath. You were sure you weren't meant to hear it, but you had. You felt cold shivers spread through you at the thought of her pure hatred and evil intentions toward you.

She then stood and exited the room hastily, leaving you alone with the broken soup bowl and sick on the floor. Sighing, you got up and grabbed a towel, soaping up the soup and what little vomit you had been able to create. You tossed it in the trash when you were done and returned to bed. Honestly, you were hungry, but there was no way you were leaving this room without Thomas.

Thomas.

You had to tell him. Tonight.

How would you even start that conversation? _Thomas, your sister is trying to kill me. How do I know this? Your mother and Edith's ghost have been warning me and then I discovered her plans in the basement._

Rubbing your temples, you wondered how you could ever make it seem believable. Remembering the recording, you thought that might help convince him. Perhaps he did not love his late wife, but he could not deny the terror in her voice, or the manner in which you had found the secret recording.

In order to do this, however, you would have to go downstairs and get the player and cylinder from the library. You truly dreaded this task, but saw no way around it. Wrapping yourself in your dressing gown, and putting on your slippers, you peeked out the door. The hallway was empty. Stepping outside, you felt a familiar cold grip in your hand. Surprisingly, another joined it on your other hand. You felt suddenly much less apprehensive. The two spirits helped lead you down the hall, making you feel less alone, and more protected. You still peeked around the corners to see if Lucille was there, but you did not encounter her. She was most likely in the basement trying to undo whatever her brother had fixed.

Still, you were careful as you made it into the library. You grabbed the player first and when you turned, you saw the book containing the cylinder floating before you. Thankful, as the player was too heavy to support with only one arm, you allowed the spirit, most likely Edith, to assist you in carrying the cylinder back to your room.

"Thank you," you whispered. There was a slight hum in response and you smiled, thankful that these spirits were with you.

You made it back to your room without incident and Edith laid the book on the bed. You stowed the player under the bed in case Lucille came back to check on you. Outside, Thomas' machine was still humming, and you hoped that he was in Lucille's way so she could not sabotage. And now you waited.

You ran through the scenarios in your mind. Best case scenario: you would tell Thomas and he would believe you without any proof, the two of you would leave the house immediately despite the impossibility the snow drifts provided, and you would live happily ever after. Most likely scenario: you would prove to Thomas that you were in danger of Lucille's jealousy, and the two of you would make plans to leave as soon as the snow allowed. You shuddered, considering the worst case scenario: Thomas knew all of this already and encouraged it.

Surely that would not happen, but your mind decided to torture you with it nonetheless.

Time moved impossibly slowly as you waited for Thomas to return. Dinner time passed and you wondered if something had happened to him. Just as you were about to brave the house to check on him, he came through the door, his coat drenched in snow.

He smiled at you warmly and shed his coat, hanging it by the door. He kicked off his snowy boots and left them by your door. Although you could tell his clothes were slightly damp, he kept them on for the time being and knelt before you as you sat on the bed.

"You're looking better," he said. Despite the fact that you did not feel better, you smiled at him.

"Yes," you answered. He noted your slight hesitation.

"Is something else the matter?" he asked. He still knelt before you and he had enormous puppy-dog eyes that made you melt. Sighing, you wondered where to even begin.

"You should change into something warm," you realized. Thomas frowned at his damp clothes.

"What would I do without you?" he wondered, kissing your forehead as he rose.

You watched him rid his clothes and lay them on the floor to dry. His naked body was slightly wet from sweat and snow. He was perfect. You sighed, wondering if this were the last time you would be able to look upon him like this.

Once he was dressed, he sat down on the bed with you. Words tangled in your mouth, making a lump out of your tongue. The book with the cylinder lay between you. When you looked at it, it moved slightly of its own accord towards Thomas. Encouragement from Edith. You took a deep breath. Perhaps it would be best to let her speak.

"What is it?" Thomas asked with a worried expression.

"I... I have found something, Thomas," you prefaced. "You will not like it, but it is important that you listen without interruption. And that you believe what you hear."

"I would never interrupt you," he promised, looking serious. "And I will always believe you."

"Not just me," you said, getting off the bed and sliding the player out. You laid it on the bed, much to Thomas' surprise. You slid the wax cylinder out and put it into place. "Edith," you finished.

Thomas' face went white. He had never mentioned his wife's name to you before. He sat very still as you played the cylinder. He watched it as it revolved, not breathing.

"Leave this place. Leave Crimson Peak at whatever cost. If not, you will die here. Just as I surely will," Edith's recording finished.

A tear formed at the corner of Thomas' eye and then fell. You reached your hand towards him and he did not react.

"I've seen her," you said quietly. "In addition to your mother. I've seen Edith. She showed me the basement, where Lucille keeps her poisons, even how she has been sabotaging you." The words started falling out of you like blood from a cut vein. Thomas sat like a statue.

Once you had explained everything you'd seen, all the spirit encounters you had had, you stopped, and the silence filled the room.

"Thomas," you heard a woman say. It was so faint you thought you had imagined it. When you turned towards the window, you knew you had not.

Thomas followed the voice and your gaze and saw her. No longer a mere skeleton, the face you had seen in the picture stood, translucent, before you. Barely distinguishable in the bright evening light, you squinted to see her. She still wore her veil, but it was not mangled and did not hide her face at all. She stood very still and Thomas let another tear fall. He reached for her slightly.

"I am sorry," he said weakly. "So sorry." You heard that his voice was on the edge of sobbing.

Edith's spirit smiled slightly.

"Help her," she said, pointing to you. And then she disappeared, the remaining smokey air floating upwards to what you hoped was peace.

It took a few moments for Thomas to look at you. You did not speak, unsure what he was thinking.

Slowly, he raised his eyes to yours. The sadness weighed them down like you had never seen.

"How can I even respond?" Thomas asked rhetorically. He shook his head.

"I'm sorry," you tried softly.

Thomas took a deep breath.

"Why?" he asked. "This is not your fault. It should be me who is apologizing."

You started to feel hopeful at this. Perhaps he would not side with his sister.

"You told me to listen, and to believe," Thomas reflected. "And so I do."

He made it sound so simple, but you felt there was much more lurking beneath the surface of those words.

"How are you feeling?" you asked. It was impossible to imagine what he must be going through at the moment.

"You know," he said calmly. "I feel fine. Isn't that mad?"

You had no idea what to say in response.

"I feel as though everything has simply fallen into place." He shook his head sadly. "Because it makes sense."

"She loves you," you tried, feeling guilty for causing these feelings in him. "Just... in the wrong ways."

He nodded.

"I love her," he said honestly. "She is my sister and I love her. We went through hell together, hell. And I do not think I would have made it without her."

"You might not have had to go through it at all without her," you countered, remembering that Edith had alluded to her suspicions about Lucille's hand in their mother's death.

Thomas flinched and you felt a stab of guilt again.

"That is true as well," he finally said morosely.

"I know that it must be extremely difficult," you admitted. "I might not have known if not for the ghosts."

"I see them too," Thomas said faintly, almost silently. "I've always seen them. I've seen my mother, Edith... A few others at times too whom I have no idea of their identity. And I chose not to acknowledge them."

"Because it was too hard," you reasoned. He nodded.

"To see them would be to see Lucille as she truly was. And if I did..."

"You would be alone," you finished for him. Again he nodded. "But you're not alone anymore," you said, taking his hand in yours. To your surprise, he curled his fingers around your hand as you took it.

"No," he conceded, "I am not."

There was a long, heavy, silence in which the only sounds were your breaths.

"What do we do now?" you asked, when you could not take it any longer.

"I do not know," Thomas admitted.

"She wants me dead," you finally said out loud.

Thomas' head snapped towards you, making you jump at the sudden movement.

"That will not happen," he said darkly.

You were reminded of an early time in your relationship when he had defended you in that alley. You knew how violent he could be when protecting you, and suddenly felt much safer.

"What do we do?" you repeated your question.

"We leave," he said simply.

"Leave?" you repeated. "Where?"

"Back to the states?" he asked. "Back with your father?"

The idea of moving back, of seeing your father and Margaret was certainly enticing at this time.

"We have enough money to get there at least," he said stiffly.

"What about your machine?" you asked. He shrugged.

"I will start over," he said. "With no one sabotaging me, I might actually be successful."

"But you've done so much work here," you said, wondering why it mattered so much to you given the circumstances.

"There are more important things," Thomas said, moving his hand to cup the side of your face.

"What about Lucille?" you asked hesitantly.

Thomas' eyes grew darker.

"She must be turned in," he said coldly. "We will show the recording to the police, show them the cabinet... And she will go to jail."

"She'll try to stop us leaving," you said. "We wouldn't make it out of the house."

Thomas sighed heavily, knowing you were right.

"Besides, when will the roads be open to travel?" you asked. "The snow has not let up or melted."

"We stay together," he said adamantly. "No matter what. We will figure it out as we go."

It wasn't exactly a plan, but it made you feel better. Knowing that Thomas was on your side, knowing that he would protect you at all costs certainly helped. What did not help was the clenching feeling in your gut that told you it would not be so easy. Lucille would not be avoided or eluded easily. Something would have to give. There would be consequences. But just how dire would they be?


	19. Closure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: violence in this chapter

Although the night's sleep was not restful, you at least felt safe in Thomas' arms. Your mind wandered over half-baked ideas of escape, each one less probable than the preceding one. The snow had not melted at all, and had, in fact, hardened with the cold winds and freezing temperatures, so that even if you didn't want to use a carriage (which would be impossible) you still would have had a nearly impossible time running should Lucille decide to chase you. Outside was not an option at the moment, lest you wanted to face probable death.

It was best to bide your time with Thomas, and try not to set Lucille off. You wondered if she had suspicions about how much you had found out. She was certainly not dumb, and may have seen or heard that you had discovered so much. This made you nervous, but there was not much you could do about it. You chided yourself for depending so much on Thomas for protection from his sister, but it seemed the most logical and safe option at the moment. What could you fight her with? Sarcastic comments? You had seen in her eyes that she held something within her that was extremely violent. Thomas had shown signs of it too, but only in his protection of you, never to harm you as she certainly would. You could not help but wonder, if the time came, could you match her ferocity for your survival? You only hoped you wouldn't have to.

The morning was cold, despite the heat generated by Thomas' body pressed up behind you. The covers were up to your neck and still it felt as though you were outside. Thomas felt you stir and immediately tucked you in closer to him. This did little to warm you, but you felt safer with the gesture.

"Good morning," he said softly, hesitantly.

A lot had passed between you last night. You were just grateful that he had believed you; grateful that Edith had helped you too. You believed in your bond more than ever, but you were still trying to understand what he was thinking. Would he hold it against you that you discovered his sister's true nature? Even if it wasn't consciously, would things ever be the same between you?

"What are you thinking, love?" he asked, pressing a soft kiss to your neck. The warmth from them felt heavenly.

"I am thinking of you," you answered honestly.

"What of me?" he pressed. You sighed.

"Do you hate me?" you asked sheepishly.

"Hate you?" he asked incredulously.

You turned to face him, wanting to read his face.

"For my discoveries," you added. "I tore your relationship with Lucille apart."

Thomas shook his head.

"You did no such thing. Whatever I thought of her before wasn't real. The world I thought we shared, the world I thought she protected me from was a lie. You did not tear apart a relationship, you simply revealed its true nature. And for that, I am grateful."

Grateful? Thomas was grateful that you took the one woman who had been his sole companion for nearly his whole life and showed him she was a murderer? It seemed too good to be true.

"But doesn't it hurt?" you asked.

"Of course," he answered simply. "But only because I allowed myself to be blinded. Only because I put you in danger."

You nearly cried, feeling relief spread over you. Of course it had been silly to think these things, but you couldn't help it. Thomas' reassurance and selflessness were the most incredible things to behold.

"Now, no more of that," he gently scolded you. "I love you. I choose you. Alright?" he asked.

You nodded.

"Now, what are we going to do today?" he asked. You tensed. "I figured we could go to the library?"

The normalcy of this surprised you. For some reason you had expected today to be a battle. Since telling Thomas everything, it felt like more should have changed. It felt like you had revealed Lucille to be a dragon and expected her to be slain before she could destroy any more villages.

"The library sounds nice," you heard yourself say. "Breakfast first though?"

Thomas nodded his agreement. The two of you got up and dressed fairly quickly and headed downstairs, wrapped up in more garments than usual to guard from the cold.

You were almost smiling, walking hand in hand with Thomas. You almost never got to spend the mornings with him, let alone the whole day. And though the reason was terrifying, it was still time to spend with him.

You entered the kitchen and your smile fell. Lucille was already in there, dressed in a black, lacy dress, sampling some fruit at the table. Her eyes darted to your and Thomas' entwined hands and she frowned. She stood and reached for the kettle.

"Tea, dear?" she asked sweetly. Thomas' grip tightened on your hand.

"No thank you," you answered, but she poured the tea regardless.

Lucille turned with the steaming cup in her hands and walked towards you.

"She said no," Thomas said with the false air of calmness.

Lucille was taken aback by this comment and looked at him, puzzled.

"It's for her health," she insisted, forcing the cup into your hands. You took it, unsure what else to do.

"Lucille," Thomas snarled. "She will not drink that."

"Thomas, don't take that tone with me," she warned. "What would you say if your wife were to contract a cold? We don't want her getting sick, now do we? She must drink the tea."

"You know very well that tea will not help her," Thomas' voice was heavy with unsaid threats.

Your went numb, almost dropping your cup. Was this confrontation really happening?

"I don't know what you mean?" Lucille sounded confident, but her hands started to shake. She took a step back from Thomas.

You squeezed Thomas' hand, warning him not to continue. You had no plan, nowhere to run. This was not the place. Thomas looked down at your pleading face and slowly nodded. He took a deep breath.

"I mean, if she is to be well, she must eat fruits and take in vitamins," Thomas covered.

Lucille relaxed and took the cup from you. She eyed you carefully, but said no more as she returned the untouched tea to the tray.

You felt your muscles relax and only now realized they had been poised for fight... or more probably, flight.

Thomas collected some fruit and toast for you and brought it on a tray, urging you out of the kitchen to follow him to the library.

You followed with a look back at Lucille whom you caught glaring at you with more hatred than you had ever seen. Something in her glare had changed. It was not simply the usual hatred... If you had to label it, you would have said determination.

Entering the library, Thomas laid your breakfast down on the table and took a seat, pulling the other chair up next to his and gently patting it. You followed his instructions and sat down. Neither of you said a word until the breakfast was gone.

"That was close," you reflected.

"I am sorry," Thomas apologized. "I did not mean to... She was trying to poison you again."

"I was not going to drink it," you assured him.

"I know," he said. "But now that I know about the tea... Watching her trying to kill you right in front of me..."

You grabbed his arm to reassure him.

"Hey," you said, staring into his sad eyes. "I am _still_ not going anywhere. Promise."

He smiled slightly at your words and kissed you.

"What do you think she will be doing today?" you asked. "More sabotaging your machine?"

"I do not know," Thomas admitted. "Nor do I care, so long as you are with me."

Just then, you heard a blood curdling scream coming from down the hall. Thomas' head snapped to the direction of the scream, and yours followed suit.

"What was that?" you asked, frightened.

"It sounded like Lucille."

Another scream, this one louder and longer. Thomas stood.

"She could be in trouble."

"She could be setting a trap," you warned.

"If she is, she will only be leading me to it," Thomas assured you. "You stay here, wait for me to return. If I am not back in five minutes, bring a weapon and come find us."

Your heart beat too fast and your muscles tensed. With a slight nod of understanding, Thomas left, closing the library door behind him. You heard his footsteps disappear down the hall. Now you sat and worried. What could Lucille possibly be screaming about? Was it simply a ploy for attention? You couldn't stand the anxiety any longer so you got up and started pacing. A few moments later you heard the door open, and footsteps running towards you. As you turned around you were met with Lucille's rage-filled face, flying at you, hands out stretched.

Her thin fingers wrapped themselves around your throat, too quickly to react. Although she had frail hands, they still gripped like iron, and you found yourself unable to draw sufficient breath. You stumbled back, watching her eyes gleam with glee from finally putting her hands on you. You looked around as best you could for a weapon but found none. She was forcing you down on the rug. You were not match for her strength. You flailed your arms as best you could, but any hits you landed were weakened by your lack of oxygen. She seemed to delight in your struggles, and pressed harder on your windpipe. Soon, you started seeing spots.

This is how it ends, you thought. You tried kicking, but nothing worked. The soft carpet gave little whispers of protest as you slammed your heels against it. Lucille's eyes were fire, and her hair fell in a disorganized fashion around her face. She was snarling at you, almost laughing. Things started to fade, the ceiling looked like it might be coming closer. You thought everything would go to black, but instead, it came back. The tension on your neck had ceased. You took a moment, felt the blood rushing back to your head, felt your limbs returning to their full feeling. You coughed violently. You tentatively sat up an saw Thomas standing over an unconscious Lucille with a fire poker. You surmised that he must have hit her on her back, since she did not seem to be bleeding. He checked to make sure she was out and then ran to you.

He knelt on the floor and grabbed your hand.

"I am so sorry," he begged your forgiveness. "She must have run and hid while I was searching and then doubled back here."

"It's okay," you choked out. Your struggle to speak made him flinch.

Thomas scooped his arms under your neck and legs to pick you up. He stood with your in his arms, stepped over his sister, and walked towards the door.

You did not hear her get up or grab the fire poker. You did not realize what had happened until you were on the ground, having fallen from Thomas' arms.

Struggling to your feet, you saw Lucille standing where Thomas had been just a moment before with her poker down, having just hit Thomas. Your eyes darted to your husband and you nearly sang with relief when you saw he was still breathing. You quickly looked back up at Lucille who was grinning manically and holding the fire poker up now.

Without another word, you ran. Knowing that you were her target and Thomas was not in danger made it easier to leave. You sprinted down the hallway.

"Which way?" you muttered to yourself, wondering where you could run that she couldn't follow.

Sighing with relief, you felt a cool grip on your hand. This time, however, the hand was visible, and you followed the hand up the arm and saw an older woman. Although she did not have her head wound now, she did have strikingly familiar features. Mrs. Sharpe.

Still running, and Mrs. Sharpe keeping up beside you, you let her lead the way towards the elevator. Lucille was far enough behind you that you did not have a problem closing the door swiftly behind you and ordering the elevator to go down. Lucille slammed against the gates, trying, but failing, to stab you with the fire poker through the elevator gates. Her gaze turned to the woman beside you and she froze. You watched her awestruck face as you lowered yourself into the earth.

"Thank you," you whispered to Mrs. Sharpe's ghost. The spirit nodded, looking wispy, like her image was fading a little. On the ride down, you had time to wonder why their spirits were presented in such a different way now. Perhaps, you mused, in the small amount of time you had, when their truth was known, when they had found some peace, they were able to resemble themselves more.

These intriguing thoughts were pushed aside by the landing of the elevator in the basement. Now what?

You stepped out of the elevator quickly and stood by the locked gate. Mrs. Sharpe was ahead of you and opened the gate as she or Edith had done before. You thanked her again and walked through, still wondering what to do now. Eyeing Thomas' machine, you wondered if it would be worth climbing up and out. Although the snow was high, and icy, what other choice did you have? Anywhere you ran in the house she would corner you. But you couldn't just leave Thomas behind. And where would you run to? You didn't know the area and you would most likely freeze to death before walking a mile. That is if you didn't slip and fall and break your neck first.

Panic finally set in and you paced around the floor. Your motion stopped as you heard the elevator being called up again. Mrs. Sharpe floated towards the machine and looked up. You nodded, noting there was no other choice but up, despite the cold and frozen world that awaited you.

Scrambling, you found your footing on the machine. It was easier this time since you knew what to expect, but the fear that nearly paralyzed you hearing the elevator doors open and Lucille step out did not help. You climbed as fast as you could, feeling the lifting sensation under your arms as you guessed Mrs. Sharpe was trying to help you.

You heard the bottom of Thomas' machine move and presumed that Lucille was starting to climb after you, though you did not waste time to check.

You reached the top and stumbled out of the hole, the cold biting at you everywhere. You trod carefully, as quickly as you dared. The snow was more like a giant lake of ice. Your footsteps didn't break the sheen of ice, and you skated along the top as quickly as you could. Lucille's grunts behind you told you she was not far. Mrs. Sharpe's spirit stood a ways to your left, near Thomas' machine, and you eyed the shovel that lay at her feet. A weapon.

Glancing back, Lucille had just gotten out of the hole. You skated as quickly as you could and grabbed the shovel. There was no chance of flight here, it would have to be fight.

Your knuckles bled from the raw wind that howled around them as you held the shovel tight. Lucille had her fire poker and a wicked smile on.

"Give it up," she said. "We both know who will win here. You don't have the guts to kill me, and nothing less is going to stop me."

"I know," you conceded, but did not lower your shovel.

"I love him," she cried desperately.

"I know," you repeated.

She laughed.

"No you don't. You don't know the first thing about love. You don't know the first thing about what it's like to care for someone all your life. To have them be your missing part, the thing that completes you. You don't know!" she exclaimed, her madness showing through her features at last.

"I do," you corrected her. "I do know that. I have that with Thomas as well."

"No you don't," she waved her poker savagely at you. You prepared to deflect her. "You don't know know him. _I_ know him."

"I'm sorry for whatever happened to make you this way," you said genuinely, more for your benefit than hers. "It may be too late for you, but it's not too late for Thomas. He can't be happy with you. He never could. But he can be happy with me. Don't you want that?" you asked, hoping to appeal to her in some way.

She screamed and ran at you with the fire poker. Somehow, she did not slip, but her concentration on keeping her balance caused her blow to be mild. You easily deflected it with your shovel.

"He could never be happy with you," she laughed. "He loves _me_."

"Not the way you want him to," you replied.

She yelled again and went to stab you, but you managed to block it with your shovel. You saw her gaze flicker to the right of you, but did not follow. Again, her face widened with awe. In her distraction, you managed to hit her side with your shovel. Although you couldn't muster much force behind it, for your muscles were weak with the cold, it did affect her enough to let out a pained groan and stumble back a few paces. This was when you glanced at Mrs. Sharpe.

"Why did you kill your mother?" you asked, watching her get her footing and step closer to you.

"She was in the way," Lucille snapped, sneering at her mother's spirit. "Thomas didn't need her. He needed me!" She swung at you again. You managed to block most of the blow, but the end of the poker grazed your stomach, opening up your dress and piercing the first layer of your skin.

"You murdered your own mother!" you exclaimed.

"For Thomas!" she countered. "Everything I do is for him. He can't live without me!"

Then her face went slack and blood started dripping from her mouth. As she started to drop, Thomas caught her, laying her down on the snow gently. You hadn't seen or heard him coming. You saw the knife he had used to stab Lucille in the back. She had dropped the poker and was laying in Thomas' arms, looking desperately at him.

Mrs. Sharpe's ghost stayed near you, watching, as you did.

Thomas held Lucille in his arms and looked down at her.

"You are wrong," he said simply. "You are not the one I cannot live without."

Lucille's eyes searched him for some kind of compassion, but found none. She struggled, pulling at his collar as the snow turned crimson.

"I am sorry," Thomas said bleakly.

"I love you," Lucille spoke softly before closing her eyes. Her body went limp and Thomas waited a moment before disengaging himself from her. He stood, watching her body carefully.

He walked over towards you and held you in his arms for a moment before turning to his mother's spirit. She was still there, watching the two of you warmly. Her spirit had grown even brighter, and she reached out towards Thomas.

He reached for her hand, but when he touched, she faded away completely.

You saw the tear roll down his cheek and tucked yourself beneath his chin, holding him. You stood there for a long time in the wind and cold. When at last you separated, he looked at you.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go inside."


	20. Epilogue

It would occur to you much later just how much had changed in the house immediately following Lucille's death. After she was gone, everything was lighter. The black moths had fled, leaving the house in relative peace. The dark windows seemed to clear, letting in more light from outside.

When the snow had cleared in the next few days, and the police had been called, they did not even question your stories. It was self defense, they said. They had taken the body away and neither you nor Thomas were sad to see her go.

And just as the house had lightened, so did your and Thomas' spirits. It did not feel like a dark cloud was hanging over the mansion anymore. In fact, it seemed to nearly brim with life now.

Before everything had happened, you had wanted to run away and never look back, to start a life somewhere else. But now, looking at the possibilities of the house, seeing how much work Thomas had put into his machine here, you couldn't dream of living anywhere else.

In a short amount of time, Thomas finished his machine. It worked perfectly, grinding deep into the clay and collecting it just they way he had always imagined. He sold the machine's designs in the early spring, just as the ground was beginning to soften, and plants you had considered beyond repair started to bloom.

The money was more than you had ever imagined. The land out here was mostly all clay, and people were very invested in making the most of it. For every machine sold, Thomas got a profit, not to mention the specific parts that went along with it. Combined with your inheritance, you needed never to want for anything.

With the snow gone, and the post office open, you were also able to discover several letters from your father informing you of his success with publishing your story. Crying with delight, you read further that the publisher wished to commission you for at least three more stories, and there was talk of either a collection of short stories, or a novel to be had. You hurriedly wrote back at once exclaiming your excitement and filling your father in, albeit vaguely, on what had occurred since you last spoke. You told him to come and stay with you once the reparations of the mansion were complete, and he agreed.

With a large portion of the money from Thomas' invention, and your bonus from your writing, you fixed up the mansion completely. The drafty rooms were sealed and coated to keep in warmth, all the ceilings and roofs were fixed so that no more snow or rain fell through them. Everything was cleaned, the couches refurnished. It looked completely different once everything was done, but you could still feel the same aura.

Your father came to visit a few months after that, just in time to tell him the exciting news of your pregnancy. When you told him, you begged him to stay for its duration and to see the birth of your first child. With the business doing well back home, he said he would be glad to do so. Margaret came for a while as well, having gotten notice from your father that he would be staying longer. Margaret, always like a mother to you, was overjoyed at your happy news.

They stayed until your child had been born. You named her Edith, after the brave woman who had saved your life. And when your father left to go back home, he promised he would return.

However, he did not return until you had had the twins. Being a mother was never something you had particularly fancied, but filling the house with more and more love and liveliness seemed essential, and Thomas took to fatherhood like a flower to the sun. He made your kids toys and trinkets in his attic, and showed them how to make some of their own.

The house that had once been overflowing with darkness was now purged and overflowing with happiness. The kids had the entire house to roam, and the yard was large and open for their games. Thomas sold a few of the lots of land he owned around the house and new developments went up. Your new neighbors were wonderful and had children around the same ages as yours. Your kids made fast friends and you and Thomas did as well.

If it hadn't had such horrible beginnings, you would have said it was a fairy tale. Everything was perfect. Once in a while, out of the corner of your eye, you thought you saw a woman with a knife sticking out of her back. But she was so weak, she never appeared fully and you didn't worry about it. All the love in the house would easily protect you from even the smallest hint of darkness at Crimson Peak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story! I had fun writing it! Thanks for all the love! And if you have any ideas of other Tom Hiddleston character/Reader fics, lemme know! (Except I think I'm taking a break from Loki for a while!) Thanks again!


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